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(which ought to have comb out, but didn't); 

Cfltttawmg dfomfrihtiwros frg 


A T , 



chables diggins, 
eegabdo pooh, 
samuel •vtabbink:, 
peoeessob stbongfellow, 



E. H. YATES and E. B. BROUGH. 










ELUEACRE. A Romance. By "W. Harassing Painsworth . 16 

JOHNSON. A Lay of Modern London. By Thomas 

Blabbington Macawley SO 

THE PAGE. A Romaunt from English History. By 

Gustavus Penny Royal Jacobus 46 

POEMS. By Edgakdo Pooh 63 

JIGGER, OF THE "DODO." By Jonas Hanivay, Esq. . 72 

MAUD, and other Poems. By A T (D.C.L.) . . SO 

ALFRED DE MUSSET IN LONDON. Ballade a la Luke 85 

THE SILLY AND THE SEA. An Apologue of Brighton. 

By Samuel Warrink 89 

GEMS OF BIOGRAPHT. By Mr. P— ff, of " The Critic," 

London Literary Journal 93 

A LIFE DRAMA. By Alessandro Smiffini 9S 

THE COSTERMONGER'S FANCY. A Humorous Ballad . 101 

SOLOMON IMPROVED. By Martinuzzi Fupper, A.M. . 104 

THE BALLAD OF PEREA NENA. Found among the 

Papers of the late J. G. Lockhart, Esq 112 

THE LAY OF THE HENPECKED. Br Lady Sufferin . 119 





CAMP COOKERY. By Alicksus Sawder 135 

FRAGMENT, attributed to Alexander Smith .... 141 

HARD TIMES. By Charles Diggins 142 


Albert Smiff 157 

THE FUTURE OF THE PAST. By the Englishman . . 169 



Strongfellow 174 




"DOWN EAST." By Mrs. Barrett Brownwig .... 182 

THE LIFE OF CHARLES SPLEEN. By Douglas Jeerall 184 




So they all agreed to come and dine with me. 
" Thursday, half-past five — sharp !" that was the 
invitation. I did not send any cards, partly be- 
cause I had not got any, and partly because some 
of my friends had not any particular addresses, but 
had their letters left at clubs and news-rooms, 
whence they were often not reclaimed until the 
ink was faded and the paper yellow with age. All 
understood they were to come, and knowing there 
would be enough to eat, plenty of good fellowship, 
and no formality, determined to keep the engage- 
ment. The powers of Mrs. Flanagan were taxed 
to their utmost. Charley Ferrars, who shares my 
chambers in Raymond Buildings, wrote down to 


his people in the country, and from them received 
as a contribution a turkey and sausages, a tongue 
and some apples; Frank Fairlegh contributed a 
hare and some birds from the paternal estate ; while 
I had bought a stupendous leg of mutton, knowing 
the partiality evinced by Causton and Billy Bales 
for that joint, when properly boiled and trimmed. 
These were confided to Mrs. Flanagan, with strict 
injunctions as to care and cleanliness ; and an im- 
mense amount of authority was requisite to compel 
that lady to refrain from the preparation of a dish 
called " toad-in-the-hole," at which she declared 
herself an adept. So much for edibles. In the way 
of drink we purchased a nine-gallon cask of All- 
sopp, and stowed it in the clerk's room j about a 
dozen of the old Port which Jack Cookson gave me 
when he left for India, to sub-edit the Calcutta 
ChingacJigoolc, was remaining : there were two 
bottles of brand y, and a stone jar of Kinahali's 
own. Townley, of the Red "Wafer Office, who 
thinks himself a swell, selit a bottle of Curagoa, 
with his compliments; but Charley Ferrars, de- 
nouncing it as sweet-stuff, only fit to be taken after 
medicine, hid it away in a cupboard. 


The day came, and the company, and the dinner. 
Mrs. Flanagan was punctual, and we were hungry. 
The covers were uncovered, not by a slipshod 
laundress, but by a man-servant, if you please ! 
Tim Egan, who had served with one of our party, 
Jack Laffan, as his batman, in the Spanish Legion, 
and who now holds horses in the neighbourhood of 
Tattersall's, had been pressed into our service. The 
turkey was a sight, and so was the manner in 
which Causton carved it. 

" Tim, you thief, go fetch me a bit of the breast!" 
said Jack Laffan. 

" 'Tis here, yer honour," says Tim, returning 
quickly ; " av we'd had a bit of that on the 5th of 
May, 1836 " 

" Silence, you villain !" roars Jack. " This 
turkey's so good, Charley, I'll drink your people's 
good health !" 

* Agreed, nem. con. We drank Mr. Fairlegh 
senior's health with the hare, and Allsopp's 
health in his own beer, and success to Jack 
Cookson and the Calcutta Chtngachgoolc ; and the 
last morsel was scarcely in our mouths before we 
saw that Causton had slipped off, and was already 


lighting a pipe. We all followed and did the same 
— all except Jack Laffan, who was entrusted with 
the manufacture of the whisky punch, which he 
accomplished in an enormous white basin, originally 
purchased by Charley Ferrars, for cleansing photo- 
graphic apparatus, but never used. When he 
produced this we all filled, and drew round the fire. 
It was very jolly. My old collaborateur, Frank 
Fairlegh, was comfortably placed in the chimney- 
corner, with a kind word for everybody ; near him 
were Causton, with his broad back and large black 
whiskers ; Billy Bales, restless and worn-looking, 
fagged to death in the preparation of his forth- 
coming burlesque; Tom Doland fresh as a rose, 
and active as a young colt, in high spirits after a 
slight morning's work of five-and-forty rounds 
in the gloves with the Bolton Nobbier; Jack 
Laffan, with a face all bronzed and seamed, but 
good humoured and impudent, as only an Irish 
face can be. Others were there, good fellows 
enough, but needing no particular description, 
classing as the " servants, guests, retainers, 
masquers, &c," in theatrical bills. Most of us 
were scribblers, outsiders in the literary world, 


men who added to their incomes by newspaper and 
magazine writing, and the conversation at length 
turned upon the various periodicals which served 
as the vehicles for our lucubrations. The prospects 
were rather gloomy. " The time for magazines is 
gone by, and past !" said Billy Bales, the misan- 
thrope ; " and quite right it should be ! They are 
effete, slow, useless lumber ! " 

" Question !" roars out Jack Laffan, who was 
for some time a gallery reporter, and has picked 
up several parliamentary phrases — "question !" 

"Well?" says Billy, sharply. 

" Look at the ' shillings' — some of them have a 
good sale." 

" Quite right," says Billy, " and they deserve 
it ; they're generally well conducted, employ clever 
men (and he bows to two or three of us who are 
engaged on the Train), and are well worth the 
money. It's of the f half-crowns' I was think- 
ing !" 

" Ah, there you're right, sure enongh !" chimes 
in Causton; "they're not worth an — (improper 
expression.) Who would give half-a-crown for 
Cokeblaze's Old Monthly, Gently's Melee, Pains- 


worth's " But here a shout of derision stopped 

the speaker. 

" Well/-' he returned, " I'll give in Painsworth, 
but as for any of the others, when Household Words 
can be bought for twopence, and Chambers' Journal 
for three-halfpence. The half-crown mags are 
overstocked by young lady and young gentleman 
contributors, whose offerings are accepted by the 
editors, because they do not require to be paid 
for them. I suppose no man here is satisfied with 
that ? We've seen ourselves in print often enough 
for the novelty to wear off ! A laudatory review 
in the Post or the Chronicle don't pay for our 
paletots, our washing, or our dinners and pipes. 
It's a bad look-out, depend upon it ! " 

" Why not start a new magazine ?" says Charley 
Ferrars; and the suggestion sent a thrill of ac- 
quiescence through the room. I will not weary 
my readers' patience with our discussion of the 
project, — how we canvassed publishers and titles ; 
how we arranged the various departments ; how 
Fairlegh was to write a tale, Causton to contribute 
reminiscences of Oxford life, Bales to do the savage 
reviews, Jack Laffan the wild and improbable 


stories, and I the facetious verse and the " about- 
town sketches ;" how the public was to be tickled, 
the town hit, and the lasting success insured ; but 
that all these were perfectly determined upon, I 
can safely say. There was an enormous consump- 
tion of whisky ; five different titles were suggested 
for the new comer, and his health was drunk under 
each new name in brimming tumblers ; finally, at 
about 3 a.m., we separated, my companions melted 
into a haze before my eyes, there was a scuffle of 
departing and drunken boots, a violent slamming 
of my outer oak, and I was alone. I rather think 
I went to sleep ; I know I shut my eyes, nor did I 
open them until my attention was roused at 
hearing a gentle cough. I started upright in my 
chair, looked round, and opposite me, in the chair 
lately occupied by Charley Ferrars, whose cheerful 
nasal horn was now rousing the echoes of the 
adjoining bedroom, sat a tall melancholy-looking 
stranger, dressed from head to foot in black. I 
was staggered, but would not let him see it, so I 
bowed and enquired his pleasure. 

"I am come," said he, in an O'Smithian voice, 
" on business. I am a spirit ! " 


"That's rum!" said I. 

"Thank you, no!" he replied, mistaking my 
meaning, and imagining I had motioned him to the 
bottle, which, however, happened to be whisky ; " I 
never drink, and have now but little time to stay. 
You are about to set up a magazine, conducted by 
the gentlemen who have been here to-night?" 

I bowed in acquiescence. 

"It won't do!" he continued. "You are all 
young men, and not sufficiently known to the 
world to bear the weight of such an undertaking 
on your unassisted shoulders. You are, however, 
earnest and persevering, and it would be a pity 
that your design should fail. Here is a packet," 
producing a small parcel from under his cloak, 
" that may be of use to you. It contains contri- 
butions from all the celebrities of the day. Take 
it — 'tis yours !" 

He drew himself up, and looked so like Zamiel 
in mourning, that I should not have been an atom 
surprised at finding the skull circle, and the ser- 
pents, and the blinking owl of Der Freischutz all 
arranged in my chambers. I however recovered 


myself, and ventured to mutter something about 
" the copyright." 

" Copyright !" he exclaimed. " Fool — idiot — 
ha-ha ! Be not afraid — they're all paid, or — com- 
pounded for!" He gathered his cloak round him, 
rose up, and vanished up the chimney. 

I am bound to state that when I repeated this 
conversation the next morning, and described my 
visitor, I was met by incredulous shouts of 
laughter. "No go, old fellow," said Charley 
Ferrars ; " don't believe in him ! Old Mrs. Flana- 
gan, the laundress, found you lying under the table 
fast asleep, with the whisky bottle firmly grasped 
by the neck, in your right hand ! You were 
' mops and brooms' to an extent when the other 
fellows went away; and I was rather too far gone 
to be of much assistance to you." 

" Pray stop, Charley," I said. " I must deny 
the truth of your statement ! Intoxication is a 
vice which " 

"Yes, all right; — we know!" he interrupted. 
" J. B. Gough, Exeter Hall Temperance Associa- 
tion, &c. — Cut it short !" 


" But the parcel ?" said I. " Here it is, and it 
does contain " 

" I know. I met a fellow in Dublin who once 
edited a mag. which failed, and he gave me these 
papers which had been sent to him, and didn't 
suit. — ' Rejected communications cannot be re- 
turned/ You know the stereotyped answer. He's 
given up business now, and thought, by a little 
turning and twisting, something might be made 
of 'em ; but we won't have 'em in the new mag, 
— that's positive !" 

His opinion influenced my other friends, and 
they would not allow me to publish the stories in 
the magazine. I accordingly locked them away 
and forgot them, and it was only the other day, 
in clearing out an old closet, that I came upon the 
parcel, and read its contents. The thought then 
struck me that the world might like to see the 
earlier and cruder style of many of its favourite 
authors, — nay, that perhaps the authors them- 
selves, who have no doubt forgotten the existence 
of these children of their fancy, might like to 
recognise their little bantlings, and compare them 
with more recent and healthy progeny. 


Under this idea I sought out my friend, Mr. 
Robert Brough, and begged his assistance and co- 
operation, which he at once readily promised. 
Having, then, carefully gone through the MSS., 
we took them to Messrs. Routledge, and through 
their kind instrumentality, Our Miscellany is now 
given to the world. 

Edmund H. Yates. 

43, Doughty Street, 
August, 1856. 


§1 Eomance. 




" 'Tis now the very witching time of night, 
When churchyards yawn and graves give up their dead. " 


In a London churchyard at midnight two persons 
were seated. The churchyard was roomy and of 
considerable extent. Through the niches of the 
vaults might be seen piles upon piles of coffins, 
some of which had burst open, through age and 
decay, and revealed mouldering skeletons and pieces 
of decayed shrouds. The flickering flame of a 
lantern, which rested on a tombstone, fell upon the 
figures before alluded to, and enabled the observer, 
had there been such, to gaze upon the lineaments 
of the mysterious twain. The elder of these was 
a man of deep marked features and sunken eyes. 


with, which, glimmering like marsh meteors in the 
light of the lantern, he instituted a searching 
glance into the countenance of his companion. 
The object of his scrutiny seemed lost in reverie, 
but from as much of him as could be perceived in 
the waning light of the lantern, he was a young 
man, short and thick set. Attired as a bricklayer's 
labourer of the mode of 1850, his flannel jacket 
and corduroy trousers of the roughest make would 
have determined his rank as sufficiently humble in 
the scale of society, had not his flashing eye, his 
exuberance of hair, which escaped from beneath 
his cap, and fell in natural clusters over his 
shoulders, marked him as one of nature's lords. 

" There is not much merriment in you," said 
the elder man, after a long silence; "you were 
never born to be a true corpse hunter. Here," he 
added, putting his hand into his breast and 
drawing forth a curiously-shaped flask, " here's a 
drop of right Nantz drink, 'twill revive you." 

" I need not drink to be a man !" exclaimed 
the other, pushing aside the proffered bottle. " But 
repeat to me in full the story you have just hinted 
at, and I warrant you the blood will flow freely 


enough through my veins. When, say you, did 
Lord Robinson die?" 

" Last night, at the eleventh hour ! The warn- 
ing came the day before yesterday/ 5 

" What warning ?" 

"Neither more nor less than that given to all 
of the family. You look astonished ? Have you 
never heard of the Two Black Cats ? Never does 
one of the House of Robinson pass away without 
their appearance, which is a true sign of death. 
But you shall hear the legend." And in an eldritch 
screech, which harmonized well with his subject, 
the old man chanted the following ballad : — 

Wtft Eina Elacft Cats. 

" Pill high the bowl, the jokes resound, loud mirth press 

through the air, 
And brilliantly the torches flash o'er knights and ladies 

The jester rises in his seat, and every yeoman tall, 
Shouts, ' Health to Lord de Eobinson, the bravest of us 


With doublet opened for his ease, fine form and noble 

Each feature showing noble blood, each action fraught 

with grace, 


Sits Robinson ; upon his cheek there is no sign of care : 
Why comes that pallor o'er his brow — that fixed and fear- 
ful stare P 

The mirth is at its loudest, when, through the opened 

Two huge Tom Cats of sablest hue, come gliding o'er the 

With arching spine and fiery eyes, fixed ears and bushy 

Each stands by Lord de Robinson, and thus begins to 

wail : — 

" * Ho ! man of pride and arrogance, thy earthly course is 

Thy lust of power, thy cruelty, all ended are and done ; 
Within this night, within an hour, cold Death shall claim 

his prize, 
Shall stiffen that now threatening hand, shall dull those 

fiery eyes.' 

" ' Now, by my mother's sacred head, my father's blessed 

Screamed Robinson, ' by man or beast ne'er yet have I 

been jeered, 
' Die, lying brutes, infernal imps,' he shrieked in accents 

Then fell exhausted on the floor, a swollen, livid corse ! 

" And ever since that hour, whene'er the icy hand of Death 
Is laid on a De Robinson, to rob him of his breath, 

B 2 


With noiseless step, and scarce-heard purr, amid the 

deepening gloom, 
Those two demoniac Black Cats are seen within the room!" 

"And did these cats appear last night ?" asked the 
young man, who was called Gaveston Montmorency. 

" They did/' answered the elder. " I was re- 
turning home last night past Robinson's house, 
when I heard a fearful screech, as of children in 
agony : I turned and beheld two large black cats, 
their tails erect, their eyes flashing, and fire stream- 
ing from their nostrils, rush across the road. — 
Listen, Gaveston ! Of all the Robinsons lying in 
the first-class bricked and stuccoed family vault 
beneath us, not one male branch of the house but 
has been suspected — — " 

"Of what?" 

" Of murder, robbery, treason, arson, burglary, 
forgery, infanticide, rape, coining, piracy, sheep- 
stealing," said the elder, in a hissing whisper. 

" Yes !" said Gaveston. 

" Yes, but come now to the vault V 

They descended into the catacombs, and the old 
man, opening the door with a rusty key which 
hung at his girdle, led the way into a vault. 


Gaveston, in following him, stumbled, and falling 
against a pile of coffins, knocked them down, and 
the floor was strewn with their ghastly occupants, 
clad in the hideous apparel of the tomb. The old 
man turned, and pointing to one at Gaveston' s 
feet, said, " Touch not that, — 'tis your mother !" 

" Great heavens !" shouted Gaveston. 

" Ay, and look what sparkles on her hand ! — a 
wedding ring ! Then she to as Lord Robinson's wife I 
justice shall yet be done. Run off as quickly as 
possible to the ' Sun and Stomach Pump/ seek for 
Blueacre, ask his advice, and be guided by it ! 
And, look you " 

He turned round to address his companion, but 
Gaveston had already vanished. 



" Fibbing culls, Common-garden hoskins, 
Prigs, milling coves, and country joskins." 

Lays of the Hue, and Cry. 

Daeting away from the side of his ominous com- 
panions, Gaveston Montmorency quitted the church- 


yard, and plunging into the ever-flowing tide of 
London life, crossed Whitechapel, anciently called 
"L'Eglise Blanche," and proceeding through 
various lanes, streets, and rookeries, only known to 
the initiated in those quarters, stopped at length 
hefore an old house, the frowning porch of which 
overhung the street, and seemed to threaten de- 
struction to the passers-by. At the door of this 
ancient mansion Gaveston knocked three times, — - 
not the " rat-tat" of the postman, the " rat-tat- 
tat" of the " swell cove" (or gentleman), nor the 
humble " rat" of the dun ; but a peculiar, and evi- 
dently significant knock. Immediately the door 
was swung open, Montmorency was seized, gagged, 
and blindfolded, and led away between two men, 
whose heavy hands rested on his shoulder. 

" A word, and this blade penetrates your en- 
trails," said the man on the right. 

" A sound, and two leaden pills are driven through 
your knowledge-box," said the man on the left. 

Obeying these hints, and relying perfectly on 
that, insensibility to fear which had never deserted 
him in time of need, Gaveston proceeded. He felt 
himself conveyed as through some subterranean 


passage ; presently he heard a heavy noise, as of a 
swing door; and the next instant his eyes were 
unbound, and he gazed with a scrutinizing glare 
round the apartment. 

The scene that greeted him was an extraordinary 
one. It was a large hall, down the centre of which 
was a long table, covered with a profusion of viands 
and liquids, pipes, tobacco, and snuff-boxes. Round 
this table were seated the choice spirits of London 
— the highwaymen, the mufflers, the area sneaks, 
the prigging princes, the gonophs, the magsmen, 
and the fences of the day. Scarce one could you 
point out who was not the hero of some glorious 

Towards the top of the table sat Mat Mulligan, 
alias Mat the Scrimper, a swarthy, dark-com- 
plexioned man, who had shown his brave contempt 
of the ignominious laws of his country by dispatch- 
ing a troublesome wife, and thereby escaping the 
weighty costs of a divorce. Next to him sat 
Smiling Sammy, a " queer cuffin," who had taken 
more vipes, fogies, tickers, sneezing-traps, and 
readers, than any man of his day. Here, too, was 
Mephibosheth Moss, of the fragrant valley of the 


Hound, whose melting-pot was ever on the fire ; 
and Ezra Jacobs, who was a better swearer of an 
alibi than any man in Europe. 

They are gone, these brave men — these noble 
fellows! — these persevering, industrious, warm- 
hearted workmen ! Cursed policemen, villanous 
detectives, have put down and extinguished this 
noble race. It is to us a matter of wonder and 
regret that, while the newspapers are daily teem- 
ing with advertisements of every species of want — 
while young men from our Universities are to be 
found employed in Australia in the most menial 
capacities — while the army and navy are so 
overstocked and so badly paid — while so many 
poor curates are starving, — it is to us a matter of 
wonder, when bludgeons are so cheap, garott- 
ing ropes so easily procured, and dark lanterns, 
jemmies, centrebits, and files, so much improved in 
manufacture, that no band of gallant desperadoes 
has been got together, who could infest the suburbs 
of London, and gain for themselves a glorious im- 

We have been led away from our subject. To 
return to it. The principal character in this won- 


drous scene has not yet been limned — and what 
pencil could do justice to his noble exterior? At 
the top of the table — " in the chair/' in fact — sat 
that prince of rapparees, murderers, and good 
fellows, Thomas Blueacre. Of a stature not re- 
markable for its height (in fact what would in 
another man have been called stumpy — but how 
could such a term apply to Blueacre ?), with hair of 
light brown, locks which, though not luxuriant, yet 
were admirably adapted to show off the bullet 
shape of his head (they had been thus cropped by 
the hairdresser of Newgate), with a short whisker 
reaching half down his cheek, a Belcher handker- 
chief round his neck, an elaborate and elegantly-cut 
suit of fustian, and with feet encased in boots 
named after the immortal Blucher, he stood — the 
model of a gentleman and a cracksman. 

Tom Blueacre, at the period of which we treat, 
had nearly reached the zenith of his reputation. His 
deeds were in every policeman's mouth, his fist had 
been on many of their noses, and a reward of fifty 
pounds for his apprehension was stuck on every 
station-house wall in London. Blueacre was the 
ultinms Bomanorum, the last of a race, which (we 


were almost about to say we regret) is now alto- 
gether extinct. Several successors he had, it is 
true, but no name worthy to be regarded after 
his own. Daniel Good, Hocker, Earth elemy, all 
of these asserted their claims, but all fell far short 
of the great original. Oh, the good old days — ■ 
woe for them ! Where are now your men of might 
and fancy? Gone, all gone ! Where is D'Olyndais, 
where the high tobyman lounged elbow to elbow 
with the peer of the realm, and dipped his exquisite 
digits into the diamond-covered snuff-box of the 
beau? Where are the matchless steeds which 
conveyed their gallant owners from one lonely 
heath to another still more lonely, and never turned 
a hair of their sleek and shining coats ? Where 
are the yellow post-chaises, the heavy York coaches, 
the grey roadsters ridden by meek city merchants, 
with thousands in their saddle-bags? Gone, all 
gone ! But we are digressing. Enamoured of his 
vocation, Blueacre delighted to hear himself desig- 
nated as the Stunning Cracksman, and it was with 
rapturous triumph that he found his nightly feats 
the theme of the daily newspapers ; and when 
seated at the head of the table in the Boozing Ken, 


he listened to the uproarious mirth of his comrades, 
chanting the praises of his various burglaries, he 
felt himself indeed a man ! 

When Gaveston Montmorency found himself in 
the presence of this great creature, he hesitated for 
a moment, overcome by the sense of his exalted 
situation ; but quickly recovering himself, he drew 
himself up to his full height, and looked proudly 
round on the assemblage. 

Gaveston' s external man, we have before said, 
was prepossessing, and the effect it produced on 
those around him was electrical. At once he saw 
his advantage. Your true toby man has ever a 
passion for effect. Gaveston was an example of 
this. He saw at once the feeling he had produced; 
and thrusting his tongue in his cheek, he winked 
his eye, gave a leap in the air, and, shouting " Pop 
goes the weasel !" came down upon the platform in 
the attitude of Jim Crow, amid a rapturous peal of 

" He's a rank scamp \" said one — a gentleman 
sitting near to the chairman. 

"A wicked dummy hunter \" said a second. 

" A fly mizzler I" said a third. 


" What is the queer cull's business here ?" asked 
the rich-toned voice of Blueacre ; and all sunk into 

"I bear a private message to the downiest of 
downy birds, the rummest of rum padders, the 
leariest of leary coves. Listen ! all you high pads 
and low pads, rum gills and queer gills, patricos, 
palliards, priggers, whipjacks, and jackmen, from 
the arch rogue to the needy mizzler. Listen ! I 
bear a message to King Cly-faker, to Prince Crib- 
cracker — in a word, to Blueacre !" 

A shout rent the roof as an acknowledgment of 
this speech. 

"Come up here, then, and I'll patter with 
you at once," said the silvery tones of Blueacre. 
" Bing avast, there, my merry men ; bing 
avast there, and leave us together." The crowd 
rose from their seats in obedience to this man- 
date, and left Gaveston standing by the great man. 

"And now," said the latter, "now that all's 
plummy and slam, let's have your jaw. Whence 
come you ?" 

" From old Jabez, the sexton of St. Sepulchre's," 
answered Gaveston. 


" Ah ! a queer old cuffin — I know him 'well. 
And what's old Jabez up to now?" 

" He sends to inform you of a discovery he has 
"Ah ! a crib to crack, a wizen to slit, — what is it?" 
" Not that — not that. He has discovered that 

Sally Smith " 

" Ah, that name !" shrieked Blueacre, in an 
unearthly voice ; " the girl I so long kept com- 
pany with ! Well — speak — patter — give your 
tongue a gallop !" 

" That Sally Smith was married to Lord Robin- 
son !" 

" Hell and furies !" mildly remarked Blueacre ; 
" married to that old bloke ! And who are you 
who've been told this ?" 

" I am her son, and in consequence " 

" In consequence, my kid ! Come to my bosom. — 
No, wait ! There's a boozing bout to-night, after 
which we'll start for Robinson House, and be 
avenged !" Then, raising his voice, he continued, 
" Come, my crushing coves, — to the booze, to the 
booze !" 

zfc vfc ^rr rfc 'K $fc 


% ILag of jBffofoem 3Lctrt>mt. 


Stout Johnson, of Saint Thomas., 

By George and Jingo swore 
That the street door of Watkins 

Should hold its own no more. 
By George and Jingo swore he. 

And named a try sting day. 
For all his trusty friends on town 
To meet to tear the knocker down, 

And bear the bell away. 

From East-end and from West-end, 

His missives prompt entreat, 
Assistance (at his rooms resolved 

On making both ends meet), 
Shame on the craven spirit 

Who sends a poor excuse, 
And smokes his pipe at home or strolls 

Ignobly on the loose ! 



The staunch allies in clusters 

Are dropping in apace. 
From many a lofty " chambers," 

From many a lowly " place/' 
From " cribs/' and " dens," and " quarters/' 

And vague mysterious "rooms/' 
Whose whereabouts to specify, 

No daring mind presumes. 


From Guy's across the water, 

From Strand adjacent Kings', 
From Charing, (which a shadow o'er 

The mourn'd Casino flings !) 
From Bartlemy's in Smithfield, 

Of accidents bereft ! 
And Middlesex, whose course we trace 
From Oxford-street up Rathbone-place, 

By turning to the left. 

From wall-encircled Temple, 

Shut out from London's noise, 
Where apron' d porters guard the way, 

And keep in awe the boys ; 


From Gray's and dingy Clement's, 
(Where rents so mod'rate run !) 
And Lincoln's Inn, where stands, alas ! 
Th' Insolvent Court, — besides a mass 
Of others of a noisome class 
(Requiring far more nerve to pass), 
"Where no whitewashing's done. 


Rich are the chops whose gravy 

Exudes o'er Rhodes's* bars ; 
And sweet, at Evans's, the notes 
That issue from the singers' throats 

In spite of the cigars. 
Beyond all bands the waltzer 

Loves Laurent's (when in tune) ; 
Best of all grounds the bowler loves 

The American Saloon. 

* This and subsequent allusions to the Valentino, the Poses 
Plastiques, Brixton Treadmill, and other familiar objects of our 
youth, since swept away by the broom of Time, would fix the 
authorship of this ballad at a date anterior to the present genera- 
tion. For instance, in stanza xiv. the students are described as 
singing now obsolete melodies of Ethiopian origin. In the pre- 
sent day the chosen chorus under similar circumstances would 
have been the "Batcatcher's Daughter," or possibly, "Villikins." 
The allusion to Cowell in stanza viii., reads like an interpolation. 



But now no chop or kidney 

Emits its soft perfume ; _ 
No voice is heard suggesting that 
" The waiter's in the room." 
In vain the sylphs at Laurent's 

Their palms in kid have dressed ; 
The bowls may wait, and Rhodes' s grate 

Enjoy a few bars rest. 


The comic songs of Cowelh 

To-night old men shall hear, — 
To-night young boys and greenhorns 

Shall have the Argyle clear; 
And parsons from the country, 

To-night sole audience be, 
To hear Sam Hall or Baldwin's call, 

" Attention for a glee !" 


A score of chosen spirits 

In Johnson's rooms are met, 
And Johnson sees his birdseye 

Diminish with regret ; 


And from the round stone bottles 

Too fast the liquids flow; — 
He sees (and feels) his spirits sink, 
And inwardly begins to think — 
; Tis time for them to go. 

" Ho ! friends and fellow-students, 

'Tis fit we should prepare 
For action (Fibbetson, you brute, 

Don't interrupt the Chair!) 
The enterprise before us 

Must fraught with danger be ; 
Will you go in through thick and thin 

To win the spoil with me? 


" For Watkins the plebeian, 

Whose door we go to spoil 
(By past unskilled attempts enraged) 
A private watchman has engaged, 

Our cherished schemes to foil. 
Therefore let no man join us 


Who fears to break the peace 
And go the undivided hog, 
E'en to (should they our footsteps dog) 

Assaulting the police." 


Then up spake Robert Simpson, 
Of Middlesex was he : 
" Lo ! I'll go in through thick and thin. 
To win the spoil with thee !" 
And up spake Brown of Charing 
(Pluck' d but last week was he) : 
f ' No man am I for saying die — 
Lul-liet-iet-y ! 


" That accidents will happen, 
It stands a fact confest, 
In families which, by their heads, 

Are regulated best ; 
And if to-night's adventures 
Hesult in fines and quods, 
So long as you are happy, 
Inform me where's the odds." 
c % 



And now the dauntless phalanx 

Stand 'neath the gas-light's glare, 
And many a pipe and ancient hat 
Hurl'd at a seared and flying cat, 

Goes whizzing through the air. 
With Ethiopia's music 

They rend the welkin now, 
Telling of Blane and Tucker's fate, 
Till stern policeman " Twenty-eight" 
Steps forward to expostulate 

'Gainst such a jolly row. 


The restless Strand behind them 

They leave, and quickly gain 
The corner where Saint Martin's Church 

Frowns grandly up his lane. 
Through danger-fraught Cranbournia 

Unscath'd they make their way 
(Protected by the evening's shade, 
For syrens in the bonnet trade 
That spell-bound district long have made 

Unsafe to pass by day) . 



Up through the Court of Ryder ! 

Nor idly pause to sigh 
O'er the crush'd Valentino's fate, 
Nor Whai'ton's bills investigate 

Above the lamps hard by. 
On ! through the Cretan mazes 

Of Newport Market go. 
They're past, and now the warlike train 
A yell of joy can scarce restrain 
As bursts in sight the proud domain 

Of Watkins of Soho ! 


" Back, Simpson ! back, Carruthers ! 

Back, Blatherwick ! — be cool ; 
Be quiet, Brown ; keep Davis down ; 

And Jones !— don't be a fool. 
Wait till the private watchman 

Shall round the corner wind ; 
He will directly, to inspect 

The premises behind. 


" There, now, you see, — I told you : 
He's hidden by the wall. 


Haste, Jones ! — engage him in a chat, — 
Insult his capes, or chaff his hat, 
Or treat him to some coffee at 

The early breakfast stall : 
Anything to engage him 

For minutes two or three. 
By which time he, I dare be bound, 

Shall see what he shall see." 


Like telegraphic message 

Jones on his errand flies ; 
And Blatherwick and Simpson 

Go with him as allies. 
(And, of those last-named heroes 

■"lis whisper'd since on town, 
They thought the watchman-chaffing game 
A less precarious road to fame 

Than pulling knockers down) . 


But Johnson of St. Thomas, 

No craven droopings knew; 
Up to the frowning knocker, 

With tiger spring he flew ; 


And mirthful e'en in danger, 
Said, with a joyous grin, 
" Walk up ! — the exhibition's just 
A-going to begin \" 


Then thrust he through the knocker 

His stick of British oak ; 
But Brown of Charing, from the throng, 
Quoting a Social Progress song, 

Thus, with a purpose, spoke : 
" Just wait a little longer, 

There's work for me as well ; 
You from its clamps the knocker tear — 
I from the door, your fame to share, 

Will please to wring the bell." 


But of that gang the stoutest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
In progress what, in planning, 

Had merely seem'd a " spree ;" 
And from the dread adventure, 

So rashly underta'en, 


All shrank, like boys who, ere they strip. 
Intend to plunge o'er head and hip 
In Father Thames, but when they dip 
In his cold flood a toe-nail's tip, 
Scared — dress themselves again. 


But meanwhile Jones and Simpson, 

And Blatherwick have tried, 
In vain, to keep the watchman 
Bound on the other side. 
" Bun, Davis ! run, Carruthers I" 

Loud cried the students all ; 
" Slope ! and to him who hindmost lags, 
The usual fate befal !" 


Back darted Brown of Charing, 

Letting the bell-pull go, 
With startling clang, and all the gang 

Retreated from the foe ; 
But when they saw brave Johnson 

Still tugging at the door, 
Under the very watchman's nose. 

They would have turn'd once more. 



But, with a crash like thunder 

(Such thunder as one hears 
At minor theatres, when the ghost 

Or maniac appears), 
Eound on its well-used pivot 

The watchman's rattle sprung ; 
The band set up a frighten' d cry, 
And (Jones in front) began to fly, 
E'en Brown, averse to saying die, 

Scorn'd not to cut and run. 


Yet, like himself in practice 

( ff Teeth drawn for half-a-crown," 
Stands graven on his bus'ness card), 
The furious Johnson struggled hard 

To wrench the knocker down. 
And with Herculean prowess. 

At length perform'd the feat ; 
And oaken splint, and nut and screw, 
With bits of paint and dried-up glue, 

Flew scatter'd o'er the street. 



With one huge stride he bounded 

Adown the steps in glee, 
Waving his hard-earned prize on high. 
But stopp'd — he was compell'd to — by 
Policeman " Twenty -three/' 
" Off with him !" cried the watchman. 

With a smile on his pale face ; 
" Now, blow me !" "Twenty-three" exclaimed] 
" This here's a Brixton case." 


Round turn'd he somewhat stagger' d, 

These myrmidons to see, 
But he took the watchman's measure. 

And the weight of " Twenty -three." 
And, ere " Robinson" you'd summon 

He had laid the former low, 
By tripping up his heels, and dealt 
To « Twenty-three" (above the belt) 

A firm left-handed blow. 


Bereft of speech and breathing, 
Awhile was " Twenty-three," 


(For, thanks to kitchen maidens fair, 
Who bought his love with viands rare., 

Of habit full was he); 
And Johnson, by his valour 

Freed from judicial grab, 
In safety gain'd the neighb'ring stand, 
And with the knocker in his hand, 

Plung'd headlong in a cab ! 

Never, I ween, did driver 

With such a style of horse, 
Urge o'er the stones at such a rate, 
To save a patron from the hate 

And fury of the Force. 
But his sympathies went greatly 

With the large heart within, 
Who half-a-crown beyond his fare 

Had promis'd — and some gin. 


And now they near his chambers, 

Where, waiting his return, 
Stand his false-hearted comrades 

Joy'd his escape to learn ; 


Whom, for their craven conduct, 

As from the cab he leaps, 
The high-sou? d Johnson scruples not 

To stigmatize as " sweeps." 


And now they press around him, 

And now they soap him down ; 
And with emollient sawder 

His just reproaches drown ; 
Now on the back they slap him. 

Thumbs in his ribs they stick, 
And now they dub him " Trojan," 

And now proclaim him " Brick." 


They gave him songs and speeches. 

They drank his health with glee, 
And (heedless of the lodgers) 

It was done with three times three. 
And they took the rifled knocker, 

And hung it up on high, 
And there it stands in Johnson's rooms, 

To witness if I lie. 



And in the nights of winter, 

When things are rather slow, 
And men (the gardens being shut) 

Uncertain where to go ; 
To Johnson's humble chambers, 

In little knots drop in. 
To smoke his soothing birdseye, 

And quaff his cheering gin ! 

When the bottled stout is opened. 

And the meerschaum pipe is lit. 
And the guests on trunks and tables 

(Chairs at a premium) sit, 
When flags the conversation, 

Revert they to the " go," 
How Johnson tore the knocker down 

Of Watkins of Soho. 


a 3Romaunt from CEnglis^ history. 


A sultry summer's day was slowly drawing to its 
close, when two travellers might have been per- 
ceived wending their way along one of those 
fertile plains which are to be found in "the 
Garden of England," as with truth it may be 
called, — the county of Kent. 

The elder of the twain was a man of middle age, 
whose grizzled hair, chafed and worn by the pres- 
sure of the helmet, and whose gaunt cheeks, 
bronzed by the burning suns of Palestine, spoke 
of the returning warrior of the Crusades. The 
steed he bestrode was a jet-black charger, heavily 
encumbered with the horse-armour of the period, 
but who, despite his trappings, from time to time 
raised his head aloft, champed his bit, and dis- 
tended his glowing nostrils, as though glad once 


more to snuff up the air of freedom, which is alone 
to be found in merry England. His j oyous feelings, 
however, did not appear to be shared by his rider, 
who continued his journey with bent head and 
abstracted air, preserving a moody silence, and 
paying no attention to the conduct of his fellow- 
traveller. This personage, over whose fair head 
scarce eighteen summers had yet passed, was a 
bright-skinned stripling, attired in the garb of a 
page; his complexion was of that dazzling red 
and white which is never encountered but among 
our Saxon race ; his eye was of the deepest blue, 
set off by long-fringed lashes that swept his damask 
cheek ; his lips were ruddy and rather full ; and the 
hand with which he checked the caprioles and 
boundings of his high-bred Jennet was of the 
smallest size and most delicate hue. Occasionally 
his glance rested on his companion, and instantly 
his eye would fill with tears ; but hastily brushing 
them away and muttering, "A truce to such 
weakness," he would plant himself more firmly in 
the saddle, and essay, by feats of equitation, to 
hide his overcharged feelings. 

They had not proceeded far on the Common, 

48 G. P. R. JACOBUS. 

when the charger of the elder traveller got his 
foot entangled in one of the numerous holes which 
in England are everywhere dug and left open by 
order of the Commissioners of Sewers, and nearly 
threw his rider to the ground. 

" Nay, then — a murrain on thee, for a stumbling 
steed. Bethinkst thou not whose neck were in 
danger an thy treacherous feet forsook thee? 
Marry ! an thou placest not to the fore the best leg 
which thou canst boast of, we shall scarce reach 
the hostelry by eventide \" 

" Oh, my lord," exclaimed his companion, " I 
trust not that. Men say that after curfew the 
clerks of St. Nicholas do ride abroad \" 

" 'Gad so! thou smooth-faced boy, what then?" 
replied the knight (for such we may imagine he 
was) ; " an they beset us they will take little for 
their toil, save shrewd knocks. Hast thou not 
heard, too, that from these villain outlaws nought 
is now to be apprehended ? Good Daniel the 
Forrester and stout Sir Buckette Field have, I 
trow, made good head against the robbers." 

" Nay, but — under your favour, fair sir? " 

" But me no buts, else will I make a butt of 


thee, and send an arrow quivering to thy heart!" 
exclaimed the knight ; then, seeing his companion 
turn deathly pale, he added, in a softer tone, " Nay, 
Walter, I did but jest! I prithee think no 
more on't. Good lad, good lad ! Come, rouse 
thee, boy. I near my own ancestral home, 
and gladly will I show thee to my dame — my 
Alice ! Oh, Alice ! yet yearns my bosom's lord 
for thy companionship, although no gentle mis- 
sive didst thou send me, when in the East all 
fever-struck I lay ! Had it not been for that 
sweet Nightingale, and for thy watchful care, 
my Walter, my poor bones had bleached 'neath 
an eastern sun !" 

" Marry ! gadzooks ! i'faehins ! good my lord, let 
not thy Walter see thy tears. Thou'lt find thy 
dame at home, and the bright eye of beauty will 
at thy coming be bedewed. Forward, my lord ! I 
follow thee/'' 

Encouraged at these words, 'the elder traveller 
struck the long rowels of his gilt spurs into the 
reeking flanks of his gallant but almost exhausted 
steed. Bounding forward, the noble animal broke 
into a long luxurious gallop, and sped so merrily 

50 G. P. E. JACOBUS. 

that the page found it no slight matter to keep his 
Jennet by his master's side. 

The sky overhead was just beginning to be 
tinged with the rays of the declining sun when the 
knight, who was riding in advance, turned his 
steed from the main track across the plain, and 
made for a large chateau which stood on the right 
hand. At this moment the evening breeze bore to 
the ears of the travellers the faint sound of a 
distant horn, winded according to the tra-lira-la 
gamut, then in vogue amongst the masters of the 
joyous art of woodcraft or venery, and after a few 
minutes' riding they came upon a man attired in a 
tunic of Lincoln green, with a baldrick slung at his 
waist, a quiver containing many a good clothyard 
shaft on his back, and in his hand a bow of tough 
old English yew. Scarcely had this personage cast 
eyes upon the knight, than he burst forth with — ■ 

" By the holy St. Beowulph ! an mine old eyes 
deceive me not (and they were ever good at track- 
ing game), I do behold mine honoured lord ! 
Bight welcome back, — returned again with honour, 
too, although thy name was mentioned not in 
Count Ragsliland's despatch. A scurvy knave ! a 


pestilence on him for his neglect, say I. But 
didst get the birdseye ? " 

" Thou speakest riddles, good Hubert," said the 
knight ; " what birdseye mean'st thou ? " 

" Nay, an thou got'st it not, will I to London 
straight. List, then ! hearing of the misfortunes 
of our brave men, I, with these aged hands, did 
pack four pounds of right good Bristol birds- 
eye, and with a gross of fresh-baked cutty pipes, 
did send them to thee. The agent's name was — 
ay, marry was it — Wardroper. I'll to London 
straight, and slit his knavish ears !" 

" Nay, prithee tarry \" exclaimed the knight. 
" Tell me, how fares it with thy lady ?" 

As his master pronounced these words, a deadly 
change came over the hitherto joyous countenance 
of the stalwart forester. He remained for some 
moments gazing pensively on the ground, and two 
large round tears, quitting the secret recesses of his 
eyes, darted swiftly down his bronzed and manly 
nose, chased each other over the broad expanse of 
chest covered by his Lincoln green jerkin, and 
finally took refuge in his russet boots. The knight 
marked his agitation. " Speak, for the love of 

D % 

52 G. P. "11. JACOBUS. 

Heaven \" he exclaimed. " Hubert, thy mistress ! 
by the rood, an thou answer' st not ; — eh, what ! 
no ! yes ! it cannot — it can — it may, might, should, 
would, or could " 

" Heavens !" exclaimed the page, " his senses 
leave him \" 

"No, Hubert, I prithee speak; I can bear all!" 

" Oh, my good lord," returned the forester, " I 
thought thou knewst the dark history, or my old 
lips had been the last to tell thee. Two days after 
thou hadst started for Palestine " 

" Well, well, — speed thee !" interrupted the 
knight, dashing the huge drops of sweat from his 
grizzled forehead, and vainly searching in the in- 
terior of his helmet for his bandana. 

" Two days, then, after thou startedst for Pales- 
tine, the Lady Alice was nowhere to be found. 
Every spot of ground was searched, every nook 
and cranny in the chateau, the terrace, the gay 
pleasaunce, ay, gramercy ! the very wood itself, 
but all in vain " 

" By my halidame !" angrily interrupted the 
knight ; " dost mean to say that thy lady is not 
here ?" 


" Alas, my lord, 'tis so !" 

" Craven and serf, go to ! Look to't, Hubert, 
thou wert the most trusted of all my vassals ; to- 
morrow, ere the sun gilds yonder copse, thou 
hang'st, and may Heaven rest thy soul !" Frown- 
ing moodily, he crossed his arms over his mail-clad 
breast, and dismounting from his steed, strode 
towards the chateau, followed at a respectful dis- 
tance by the page. 


The sun had gone down to rest in his briny bath, 
but the day was still warm and bright. It passes 
my honest comprehension to understand the change 
that has taken place in the weather of this our 
country. Summer is summer now no longer. True, 
we have the harebells, the modest shrinking daisies, 
the yellow buttercups, — still the change is visible. 
Perhaps one cause of this change may be that 
which has brought about many another evil in the 
land, namely, the giving up those helms and 

54 G. P. R. JACOBUS. 

hauberks, those tough old yew bows, those gor- 
geously slashed trunk hose and pourpoints, which 
were the glory of our ancestors, but are now, alas ! 
fallen into disuse. 

It was in the great hall at Rosherville, — that 
splendid hall, which still remains, attesting, like 
many other monuments, the magnificent ideas of 
an age which we perhaps justly term barbarous, 
but which displayed, amongst many rude and 
uncivilized things, a grasp of execution which we 
seldom can attain even in these days of Mr. Cole, 
C.B., and the School of Design. — In the great 
hall at Rosherville, about an hour after sunset, 
was laid out a banquet, which, in profuse luxury 
and splendour, might have equalled the strongest 
efforts of Messrs. Bathe and Breach. The table 
not only groaned, but actually cursed and swore 
under the weight of quaint and curious plate. 
Many of the cups and dishes were so ornamented 
with jewels, that it was rather a nuisance than 
otherwise; and oft did a gallant knight find a 
large ruby or carbuncle sticking in his stewed 
steak ! 

Although the guests themselves, the actual 


family of the host, only amounted to seven 
hundred, and the hroad table at which they sat 
looked small in the centre of the hall, yet the 
number of attendants, carvers, cupbearers, butlers, 
and sewers,* was not less than two thousand, 
without including the harpers, the trumpeters, the 
minstrels, the sauvage-men, the morris dancers, the 
jongleurs, the mummers, and the spectators, who 
were admitted within certain limits. Every imagi- 
nable dainty was on the table, wines of the choicest 
vintages of France and Spain, metheglin, hippo- 
eras, iced punshe sent from the Joyeuse Societe of 
y e Garricke, and a curious pleasant liquid in long- 
necked flasks, labelled "lih." procured at vast 
expense from stout Patrick Kinahan, king of 

At the head of the table sat the Baron de 
Authorme, whose acquaintance was made by our 
readers in the last chapter. His brow was moody, 
and the beaker before him stood unheeded. His 
worthy jester, Tommathews, vainly endeavoured to 

* N.B. — Not Mr. Chadwick or Dr. Southwood Smith, — but 
attendants so called. 

56 G. P. R. JACOBUS. 

rouse him from his melancholy. Many and various 
were the means he adopted for this end. Occa- 
sionally he would put his mouth to his master's 
ear and shout, " I saw you do it !" or, " There's a 
policeman !" Once did he hie him to where some 
brands were burning, and under pretence of shaking 
hands with one of the retainers, did place the 
lighted stick on his extended palm. But seeing 
all his efforts fruitless, he clapped the stern war- 
rior on the back, and after saying, " Come, Nunks, 
wake up \" burst into the following chant — 

" This mornynge verrie handie, ] 
My malladie was ysoche — ■ 
I in my tee toke brandie, 
Butte toke a coppe too muche." 

" A pestilence on thee for a mad rogue I" in- 
terrupted the Baron. " Stop this. Gadzooks ! an 
thou put'st not a stopper to thy prate thyself, 
I'll slit thy wizen as I would a foul gerfalcon's !" 

"What ails thee, good coz?" asked Tom- 

" Fool thou art in name and nature too !" re- 
turned the Baron. " Why ask'st thou ? When I 
left this house, I left " 


" Ay, marry ! gossip/' said the jester, in the witty 
fashion of the period, " left is not right ; and that 
which is left cannot be said to be taken ; and the 
left side of a plum-pudding is that which is not 
eaten !" 

" Go to, go to !" exclaimed the Baron, smiling in 
spite of himself at this brilliant sally. " Leave me 
now ; my mind is not attuned to mirth.'" 

"Nay, rouse thee, Nunks ! here's that to raise 
thy spirits ;" — and Tommathews beckoned to two 
jongleurs, who came forward, and after placing on 
the upraised dais several thousands of eggs, exe- 
cuted, with nimble feet, and without the slightest 
impediment, that celebrated dance which was in- 
vented by their liege lord. Immediately on the 
conclusion of this saraband, cries of " A Nathanne ! 
A Nathanne \" rung through the vast extent of the 
hall. Seeing the frown still on the countenance of 
his lord, the merry jester Tommathews gave an- 
other sign, and two minstrels, bearing in their 
hands golden harps, advanced, made obeisance, and 
commenced singing. Their chant was much ap- 
plauded, and could their strains be written down in 
the exactness in which they were sung, they would 

58 G. P. R. JACOBUS. 

be regarded as invaluable specimens of the English 
poetry of that early age. In modern days, how- 
ever, a so-called refinement has sprung up, which 
regards with horror the fine freespoken language 
of bygone times, — language in which at least a 
spade was called a spade, and not known under any 
foreign appellation. To the minstrels succeeded a 
sauvage man, whose rude figure, but scantily 
covered with strips of ivy and green boughs 
twisted into a species of apron, was calculated to 
strike dismay into the minds of the spectators. In 
his hand he carried a large club, formed of the 
trunk of a young tree, which he wielded with the 
utmost ease, whirling it 'round his head, and beat- 
ing time with it to the various cadences of the 
music, — a pitch-pipe, played by one of the at- 
tendants, being his sole accompaniment. Not- 
withstanding all this, junketing, however, the mind 
of the Baron was obviously ill at ease. Reclining 
back on his seat, his eye wandered vacantly over 
the forms of the mummers ; the rhymes of the 
minstrels echoed on his ear, indeed, but found no 
response in his heart ; his hand occasionally grasped 
the jewelled sword-hilt at his side, as though his 


brain were busy with thoughts of evil, and at 
length he sprang to bis feet, and shouted — 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my merry men ! away, one 
and all ! A gracious Providence be thanked, that 
once more I am safe among ye. To-morrow's sun 
will find ye all ranged in order due upon the up- 
land slope. This war among the unbelievers hath 
from my pouch too much of rowdy ta'en • it needs 
replenishing ! To-morrow, to that end Til com- 
mune with ye." 

He waved his hand, and each retainer and mem- 
ber of the family, making a courteous salute, retired 
from the Baron's presence ; — for in those early days 
of merry England, even when the subject of cash 
was mooted, man stood by man, and joyfully ac- 
corded a helping hand. Would it were thus in 
these so-called days of enlightenment ! 

Quitting the noble hall, as soon as they had 
departed, the Baron emerged upon the gay plea- 
saunce, and paced up and down as though rapt 
in meditation. The wind sighed softly through 
the trees, the moon had risen and shed her mild 
and placid light on the guards on castled heights 
and lonely shepherds watching their flocks on lofty 

60 G. P. K. JACOBUS. 

mountains. Few clouds were in the sky, and those 
that were were light and fleecy. f It was one of 
those sweet evenings which even now occasionally 
visit us, when our greatest delight is to wander 
among ivy-clad ruins, and through romantic dells 
with the " fayre ladie of our love," and think upon 
the glories of the past times. Left alone, the 
Baron gave himself to the sorrowful emotions which 
possessed his soul ; he paid no attention to the 
notes, or, as they were then called, neots, of the 
shepherds' horns, heard in the distance ; he looked 
not at the beauty of the moonlight ; but leaning 
against the wall, while the large tears coursed each 
other down his wan cheeks, he at length gave vent 
to his pent-up feelings in a fit of sobbing. 

" Oh, Alice !" exclaimed he, " my life, my love, 
my bride, where art thou ? I left thee two short 
years since in the spring of youth and health ; I 
return to find thee — or rather not to find thee. 
The current of my life is stopped — my sun has set 
— my hopes are blighted — my heart broken — my 

days Ah ! a footstep ! Great Heaven, that any 

of my varlets should see these signs of weakness. 
Who goes there ? Ha ! boy, speak ! What hast 


seen ?" And rushing forward lie seized the page, 
who had emerged from the shadow of the building. 
The youth flung himself on his knees. " Oh, 
good my lord, spare me, I prithee I" he exclaimed. 

" Nay, by the soul of St. Egbert, nay !" returned 
the Baron; "thou hast seen my tears, and now 
prepare for death \" He seized him by the scruff 
of his delicate neck, when a shriek rang in his 
ears, and a well-known voice cried " Reginald l" 
The Baron looked in amazement ; — it was the page 
who had spoken ! " Oh, Reginald, I can play this 
part no longer ! take thine Alice to thy heart I" 

" St. Egbert ! St. Beowulph ! do mine eyes and 
ears deceive me ? What, Alice, thou ? — and thou 
hast " 

"Ay, Reginald!" exclaimed Alice, removing 
her jewelled cap, and letting her chestnut ringlets 
ripple to her knee ; " I — thy wife — thine Alice, 
have, in this humble garb, followed thine every 
movement on the tented plain; have tended thy 
sick couch and washed thy wounds ! and now," 
she added, with an arch laugh — " and now thou 
wouldst strike me !" 

" An I would, may my sword-arm drop from 

62 G. P. K. JACOBUS. 

its socket ! Heaven bless thee, Alice ! Once more 
is thy Reginald happy!" 

More need not be said. The next day witnessed 
a repetition of the banquet, — only on a scale a 
thousand times more gorgeous ; and hereafter, 
until death called them away, Alice and Reginald 
lived happy in merry England. 



%\t |!HT0t. 

Once, as through the streets I wandered, and 

o'er many a fancy pondered, 
Many a fancy quaint and curious, which had filled 

my mind of yore, — 
Suddenly my footsteps stumbled, and against a 

man I tumbled, 
Who, beneath a sailor's jacket, something large 

and heavy bore. 
" Beg your pardon, sir I" I muttered, as I rose up, 

hurt and sore ; 

But the sailor only swore. 

Vexed at this, my soul grew stronger: hesitating 

then no longer, 
" Sir," said I, "■ now really, truly, your forgiveness 

I implore ! 


But, in fact, my sense was napping " Then 

the sailor answered, rapping 
Out his dreadful oaths and awful imprecations hy 

the score, — 

Answered he, " Come, hold your jaw! 

" May my timbers now be shivered" — oh, at this 

my poor heart quivered, — 
" If you don't beat any parson that I ever met 

before ! 
"You've not hurt me; stow your prosing" — then, 

his huge peacoat unclosing, 
Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath 

his arm he bore, — 
Showed a cage which held a parrot, such as Crusoe 

had of yore, 

Which at once drew corks and swore. 

Much I marvelled at this parrot, green as grass 
and red as carrot, 

Which, with fluency and ease, was uttering sen- 
tences a score ; 

And it pleased me so immensely, and I liked it so 


That I bid for it at once; and when I showed 

of gold my store. 
Instantly the sailor sold it ; mine it was, and his 

no more ; 

Mine it was for evermore. 

Prouder was I of this bargain, e'en than patriotic 

When his Sovereign, Queen Victoria, crossed the 

threshold of his door ; — 
Surely I had gone demented — surely I had sore 

Had I known the dreadful misery which for me 

Fate had in store, — 
Known the fearful, awful misery which for me 

Fate had in store. 

Then, and now, and evermore ! 

Scarcely to my friends Pd shown it, when (my 

mother's dreadful groan ! — it 
Haunts me even now I) the parrot from his perch 

began to pour 
Forth the most tremendous speeches, such as Mr. 

Ainsworth teaches — 



Us were uttered by highwaymen and rapparees of 

yore ! — 
By the wicked, furious, tearing, riding rapparees 

of yore; 

But which now are heard no more. 

And my father, straight uprising, spake his mind — - 
It was surprising 

That this favourite son, who'd never, never so trans- 
gressed before, 

Should have brought a horrid, screaming— nay, 
e'en worse than that — blaspheming 

Bird within that pure home circle — bird well 
learned in wicked lore ! 

While he spake, the parrot, doubtless thinking it a 
horrid bore, 

Cried out " Cuckoo !" barked, and swore. 

And since then what it has cost me, — all the wealth 

and friends it's lost me, 
All the trouble, care, and sorrow, cankering my 

bosom's core, 
Can't be mentioned in these verses ; till, at length, 

my heartfelt curses 

THE PAltllOT. 67 

Gave I to this cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned 

me o'er — 
Wicked, wretched, cruel parrot, who quite coolly 

scanned me o'er, 

Laughed, drew several corks, and swore. 

" Parrot I" said I, " bird of evil ! parrot still, or 

bird or devil ! 
By the piper who the Israelitish leader played 

I will stand this chaff no longer ! We will see 

now which is stronger. 
Come, now, — off ! Thy cage is open — free thou art, 

and there's the door ! 
Off at once, and I'll forgive thee ; — take the hint, 

and leave my door." 

But the parrot only swore. 

And the parrot never flitting, still is sitting, still 
is sitting 

On the very self-same perch where first he sat in 
days of yore ; 

And his only occupations seem acquiring impreca- 


Of the last and freshest fashion, which he picks up 

by the score ; 
Picks them up, and, with the greatest gusto, bawls 

them by the score, 

And will swear for evermore. 

See the Gardens with the swells — 
Noble swells ! 
What a power of foolery their presence here foretels ! 
How they chatter, chatter, chatter, 

To each other left and right, 
What to them is any matter ? 
Since their tailor and their hatter 

Are their sole delight. 
Running tick, tick, tick, 
And hastening to Old Nick, 
By expending time and money on dancing, dicing, 

Are the swells, swells, swells, swells, 
Swells, swells, swells, — 
Are the foolish and profligate young swells. 


See the dressy little swells — 
Snobby swells ! 
What a world of happiness that Moses' paletot tells ! 
Through the murky air of night, 
How they shout out their delight, 
From their Cashmere-shawled throats, 

And out of tune, 
What a drunken ditty floats 
To the gas-lamps shining on policemen's coats, 
On their shoon ! 
Oh, from out the Bow-street cells, 
What a gush of harmony uproariously wells ! 
How it smells ! 
How it knells — ■ 
For the morrow ! how it tells 
Of the folly that impels 
To the laughing and the quaffing 

Of the swells, swells, swells, 
Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, 
Swells, swells, swells, 
Of the dining and the flne-ing of the swells ! 

See the literary swells — 
Writing swells ! 


What a tale of envy now their turbulency tells, 
How they quarrel, snarl, and fight 
With each other as they write ! 
Much too dignified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
With their pen, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 

In a mad expostulation with the dazed and doubt- 
ing buyer ! 

And they leap high, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavour 
Now — now to sit or never — 

On a throne above all other men. 

See the venerable swells — 
Bygone swells ! 
What a world of solemn thoughts their gaiety 
compels ! 

In their ancient fashioned coats, 
In their stiff cravatted throats, 


How we recognise the Regent and his curjjs ! 
There remains now not e'en one — 
AIL. all the set are gone, 
lis sont marts ! 

Save the few men — ah ! these few men ! 
Who are left among the new men 
All alone ! 
And who, toiling, toiling, toiling, 
Through their days, mere skin and bone, 

Feel a pleasure now in spoiling 
Each hearty healthy tone — 

Do these swells, swells, swells, 

These swells, swells, swells, swells, 

Swells, swells, swells, — 

These worn-out, used-up, godless, ancient swells ! 



author op "sangster's history op the' umbrella," 

"sketches in sky blue," "dietrichsen's almanack," 

' ' singleton glo'ster, " etc. 


The Mediterranean ! There is music in the word 
to the ear of the scholar and gentleman, which I 
fear the somewhat coarser textile fabric of my highly 
respectable friend Blugg's auricular economy would 
hardly appreciate. Don't be offended, Blugg. You 
are a most estimable bagman — and your general 
conduct to Mrs. Blugg and the corduroyed and 
pinafored Blugglings, is doubtless in all its bear- 
ings irreproachable. But you are no gentleman, 
Blugg. I diverge, parenthetically, into this out- 
burst of good breeding to prove to you that I am 
one myself. 

The Mediterranean ! Washing the shores of 
Carthage, where old Hannibal lived when he was 
at home. Glorious old Hannibal ! And of Sicily, 


where that magnificent stunner, Dionysius, held 
potent sway. Glorious old Dionysius ! Ullimus 
Tyrannorum ! And of Naples : which my plebeian 
acquaintance, Higg, will be astonished to learn, for 
the first time, (never mind, Higg, old boy — it's 
never too late to learn — stick to your Mechanics' 
Institute, and there is no knowing what may 
happen,) was known to the ancients by the 
high sounding name of Neapolis.* Glorious old 
Neapolis ! 

And Rome ! What shall we say of Rome ? The 
Tiber flowed through it. Glorious old Tiberius ! 
It was there that Julius Csesar (the greatest and 
noblest gentleman that ever lived, though even 
he could not keep the Scotch out of England,) 
published his Commentaries. What did you say, 
Huggins ? " You have not read the work?" It is 
a matter for regret, rather than surprise, Huggins. 
Nevertheless, there are people cognizant of the 
existence of such a publication. Floreat Etona ! 

The Dodo was bound for Malta. In a few 

* Juvenal. In. verb. pers. non. nom. hab. Blokes, Cam- 
bridge, 16514. 


hours Valetta would be iu sight. Jigger stood on 
the quarter-deck watching the poop lantern as it 
fluttered in the cool south-westerly breeze. It 
would be his turn to take charge of the watch in 
half-an-hour. A tear swelled up into his blue 
Saxon eye as he was reminded of a watch that the 
reduced circumstances of his family had compelled 
him to leave in charge of another. How he 
cursed his father ! the miserable grocer, but for 
whose officious intervention, the blood of the 
Mac Taggarts (of Castle Taggart, Inverness), 
would be flowing unpolluted through his veins. 
He drew his mother's miniature from his bosom. 
The noble face smiled upon him. With the same 
calm smile of resignation the beloved original had, 
doubtless, endured the hardships of her early life — 
which the inhumanity of a Mammon-worshipping 
age had compelled her to spend in the Glasgow 
poorhouse. "With a like smile of trusting gratitude 
she would have received the humiliating but well- 
intentioned prospect of emancipation held out to 
her in the ignoble tradesman's kindly, if un- 
grammatical proposal of marriage. Well, well ! 
Jigger would not be hard on his father — deep as 


was the injury he had experienced in the con- 
tamination of his family connexion. He would 
forgive him ; but he would cut his acquaintance as 
soon as he should obtain his lieutenancy ! 

This nobly-resolved reconciliation of conflicting 
duties partially calmed his troubled spirit. How- 
ever, he thought it advisable to go on weeping. A 
light hand was laid on his shoulder ; he turned 
round. Ossian Mac Toddie stood behind him : a 
book was in one hand, a stiff glass of rum-and- 
water in the other. Between his teeth he held a 
short pipe, from which the odour of the best bird's- 
eye unmistakeably emanated. 

Jigger dried his tears. He was an officer and a 
gentleman ; moreover, his pocket-handkerchief had 
just come home from the wash; so he stood un- 

" Well, younker !" said Mr. Mac Toddie,— not 
unkindly, as our hero felt. He was always sus- 
ceptible to kindness, (as I have no doubt you are, 
also, Higg ; and if I were to invite you to dinner, 
in the fulness of your gratitude, I am convinced 
you would come — so I wont, Higg, which is a sell 
for you.) He wept again. 


(( What's the row ?" said Ossian, poking him i 
the ribs, and winking. 

Jigger's heart had always warmed, without hi 
knowing why, towards this studious and rarely ar. 
proachable young officer. He had endured hi 
kicks with less repugnance than those of his brothe 
oldsters; (it may be that the instinctive hig 
breeding of our hero taught him the distinctio 
between a patent-leather and a highlow.) But th 
delicate sympathy, veiled under a surface of un 
wonted bonhomie, was almost too much for bin 
He remembered, however, that he was sprung froi 
the Mac Taggarts, and so far mastered his emotio. 
as to ask his new friend — ■ 

" What are you reading ?" 

" Carlyle." 

"Is it good?" 

" Did you never read him ?" 

" Never." 

" I'll lend you his works." 

Our hero could have kissed him for this offej 
but he didn't. Ossian continued — 

" Have you read Emerson ?" 

" Never." 


" Oh ! you should." 

Jigger had promised to settle his bootmaker's 
bill out of his next remittance; but he mentally 
resolved to invest the money in a copy of Emerson's 
collected works instead. 

There was a pause of some minutes, during which 
our hero watched the intellectual countenance of 
his companion intently. He., however, forbore to 
intrude on the majestic serenity of his thoughts. 

Ossian's pipe fell overboard during his reverie. 

" There," he said, laughing, " there's a warning 
for me to give up smoking, though I am afraid I 
shall find it rather difficult at this time of day." 

" Sera nunguam est ad ionos mores via" said our 
hero, with that excusable eagerness for quotation 
which is the characteristic of the educated gentle- 

" So, you are a scholar, younker," said the elder, 
with an approving laugh ; " I thought so. Well, 
now we can understand each other. What a thing 
is learning !" 

Jigger listened breathlessly. 

The master's mate continued— 1 ''' Do you remem- 
ber what jolly old Seneca — or it may have been 


Martial — says about the blessings of intellectual 

« I do not." 

" Emollit mores nee sinet esse feros. There 
were men in those days, younker !" 

" I believe you, my messmate," sighed our hero. 

" Yes, it is something in these times, when the 
guinea carries everything before it. — By the way, 
you don't happen to have one about you, do you?" 

" Quite the contrary," said our hero, with the 
impetuous alacrity of a candid nature. 

" I think the better of you for it," said the 
other, his voice and countenance dropping a little. 
"1 said it to try you. I feared you might belong 
to the Plutocracy, by which the service is being 
rapidly ruined. Fortunately, they cannot rob us of 
our learning. You remember old Juvenal or some- 
body's line about perishable riches ?" 

" Pray repeat it." 

" Effodiuntur opes irritamenta malommP 

<c How witheringly true !" 

" Possibly ! But in the meantime Bright is 
member for Manchester." 

Our hero clenched his fists. 


"What is to be done?" he cried. 

Ossian leant over the bulwarks, and tried to 
spit in a dolphin's eye. He missed. 

' ' Never mind, younker," he said, half laughing, 
half annoyed at the misadventure. " However un- 
promising the age, the poet has left us one enduring 

" Which?" 

" Ars longa, vita brevis. Good night, younker. 
I want some more rum-and-water." 

Jigger watched him down the hatchway. He 
felt that, with such a friend, life would be pleasant 
indeed. B. 



Br A T (D.C.L.). 



ChikkOTj chirp, chirp, chirp, twitter, 

Warble, flutter, and fly away ; 
Dickey birds, chickey birds — quick, ye birds, 

Shut it up, cut it up, die away. 

Maud is going to sing ! 

Maud with the voice like lutestrings, 
(To which the sole species of string 
I know of that rhymes is bootstrings.) 


Still, you may stop if you please ; 

Roar us a chorus sonorous, 
Robin, bob in at ease ; 

Tom-tit, prompt it for us. 
Rose or thistle in, whistlin', 

(What a beast is her brother !) 
Maud has sung from her tongue rung ; 
Echo it out, 
Prom each shoot shout, 
From each root rout — 
" She'll oblige us with another." 

fttewwer Ufateii. 


I am a hearth-rug. 
Yes, a rug — 
Though I cannot describe myself as snug ; 
Yet I know that for me they paid a price 
For a Turkey carpet that would suffice 
(But we live in an age of rascal vice). 

Why was I ever woven, 
For a clumsy lout with a wooden leg 
To come with his endless Peg ! Peg ! 

82 A- T (d.c.l.) 

Peg ! Peg ! 
With a wooden leg, 
Till countless holes I'm drove in. 
("Drove" I have said,andit should be "driven :" 
A hearth-rug's blunders should be forgiven, 
For wretched scribblers have exercised 

Such endless bosh and clamour, 
So improvidently have improvised, 
That they've utterly ungrammaticised 
Our ungrammatical grammar). 
And the coals 
Burn holes, 
Or make spots like moles, 
And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn; 
And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging 

The rolls 
Prom the plate, in shoals, 
When they're put to warm in front of the coals ; 
And no one with me condoles, 
For the butter-stains on my beautiful pattern. 
But coals and rolls, and sometimes soles, 


Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire, 
Are nothing to raise my indignant ire 

Like the Peg ! Peg ! 
Of that horrible man with the wooden leg, 
That crushes my pile like the shell of an egg. 
The Peg! Peg! 

Of that wooden leg, 
Mercy from whom it were vain to beg, 
(If the rugged voice of a rug could beg), 
Less human than soles, or coals, or rolls, 
For wooden legs have got no soles. 

This moral spread from me, 

Sing it, ring it, yelp it — 
Never a hearth-rug be, 

That is, if you can help it. 

fjpnijs in (fcritl. 


What's the odds, so long as you're happy, so long 
as you're not ? 

■b 2 

8-i A T (D.C.L.) 

Never say die, when you know there's nothing to 

live for at all. 
Who is who, in an age when nohody knows what's 

And the way to Westminster lies through Pimlico 

over Vauxhall ? 
Truth is the greatest liar I ever knew in my life ; 
Soyer was never known the plainest dinner to dish. 
Black is your only white — Peace is your only strife. 
Rothschild's as poor as Joh, and Cruikshank drinks 

like a fish. 



There's the Nassau balloon. 
No ! it's (somebody's drunk) 

The moon ! 
Like a nail in a trunk ! 

Come, be steady : you won't ? 
Mother Moon, if you please 

Now don't, 
For it's not the green cheese. 

Don't keep winking at me. 
There, I saw you again, 

Two — three ! 
By the Pope, there are ten. 

What ! you're there all alone ! 
What's become of the nine ? 

Come, own. 
(Pshaw, it wasn't the wine) . 


Moon, what are you ? Declare. 
A white wafer, to' dry 

Stuck there ? 
Or a hole in the sky, 

With a light shining through. 
Like a tin rushlight-shade, 

Quite new, 
With no second hole made ? 

Or a big silver ball. 
With which Jupiter plays 

At mall 
On his high holidays ? 

People say you are chaste, 
But such scenes as I vow 

You've faced — 
Why, you're kissing me now ! 

Once a month you come out. 
Who's your editor ? Say. 

No doubt 
You have silver to pay 


Your contributors all : 

Stocks of gold for each dun 

Not small, 
You receive from the sun. 

Oh, you cold, careful jade ! 
Let alone such as you. 

In trade 
To look after your dew. 

You're attractive, no doubt, 
And poor devils like me, 

Keep out 
When in bed we should be. 

And you drive us all mad, — 

For your beams, though so light, 

(Too bad !) 
Fall, upsetting us quite. 

I'm as drunk as a lord. 

I say, Moon, chuck us down 

A cord, 
And I'll climb for a crown 


To your summit right up. 
Or suppose you descend 

And sup. 
By the way, who's your friend ? 

What ! another ? — one more ? 
Well, then, bring 'em all three. 

What! four? 
Well, it's all one to me. 

Five — six — seven moons ! Oh ! 
This is stretching the fun. 

Halloo ! 
Why, there's not even one ! 

Policeman, my friend, 

I'll move on if you wish ; 

But lend 
Me your lantern to fish 

For the moon in the sky ; 

There she is — no, that's not her ; 

My eye ! 
Then some scoundrel has shot her ! 


&n ^ptilocfue of 3Srtj$jt0tt. 



" Here comes one, serenely unconscious that he is a fool." 

The Lily and the Bee, 

One standeth by the sea, 
The sea, the main, the ocean, 
It is blue, it is green, it is deep, 

Watery, — 
Salt, not fresh watery, — 

Salt, salt, salt j 
What thoughts are passing 
Through thy translucent bosom, 
O sea? 
Thinkest thou 
Of people connected with thee, 
Mentioned to us in song ? 
Of Taylor- 
Billy ! 


Who, by the two score of young fellows, — 

Stout — ay ! 
And goodly to be seen ! 
Blue as to their array, — blue, blue, 
Was carried off, 
Unresisting, — 
Ay, pressed, pressed by a gang, 
Torn from his home, home, 
Dulce Domum ! 
Tempus est ludendi, 
Venit liora ! — his hour was come, and away 

To the sea ! 
To the blue ! to the fresh ! 

To the EVER FREE ! ! ! 
Do you recollect the captain 
Who was our commander ? also, 

The crew ? Ah, Boreas ! cease, 
Blustering railer ! 
Railer ! blustering, storming, 
Screeching, blaspheming, 

Shrieking RAILER ! ! 
To me ye landsmen, be so 
Excessively kind 


As to give me for one minute 

Your kind 

Sail, sir ! boat, sir ! 
The weather is fine for Rottingdean ! 

Come — the sails, 

Canvas, floorcloth, — 
Big, large, potential, see ! 

The boatman is prepared, 
Large whiskered, deep voiced, hairy faced, 

Setteth the sail, 

His comrades 

Shove her 
And then, running by the side, 
Leap in ; the big 

Waves rise : 
Ah ! the cold pork 

I had for 

Rises in my stomach ! 
Also, my stomach itself 
Rises — my boots jump 

92 SAMUEL WAttftlNK. 

In the air, and the 
Look down upon me and laugh ! 

My head grovelleth 

Beneath the seat, 
Ah ! once more ! where ? — what 

Shall I do ? What word can I 

Use to express my feelings ? 
Ah, I have it ! Come, gentle steward,- 



[Living authors and artists are respectfully informed that (for 
a consideration) they can have their names, addresses, and 
biographies, with complete lists of their works, published in this 
Journal. Printed forms! for supplying us with the necessary 
information, may be had on application to the publisher.] 

' Alison (Sib Archibald), Author, 298, Queer- 
street, and Daft Castle, Ayrshire ; born April 1st, 
— year forgotten; son of old Alison and old Mrs. 
Alison. Vaccinated within a few weeks of his 
birth, and weaned the year following 1 , on asses' 
milk — the donkey being still in the family. Had a 
severe illness in his youth, and lost the use of his 
brains. His friends succeeded in getting him 
into Blackwood's Magazine, — an asylum charitably 
endowed for the reception of persons so afflicted. 
Was also enabled, by the peculiar nature of his 
calamity, to take high honours at College. Made 
a baronet in 1852, during the administration of 

94 MR. P FF, OF THE OR T C. 

Lord Derby, decorated with the Order of the 
Thistle, and created Knight Commander of the 
Rack and Manger. Prophesied the downfall of 
England in 1853 ; and has been several times 
detected in a mischievous, though unsuccessful, 
attempt to set the Thames on fire. Author of 
The History of Europe in Two Sections. The 
grave of the man who read the first through, for 
the purpose of correcting the press, and actually 
survived it three days, is still shown at Edinburgh. 

Bopps (Michael Angelo), Artist, 198, Little 
Britain. Born 1825 of poor but dishonest parents. 
In 1836 entered himself as a student in the atelier 
of Snobbins, in whose family his first effort (a 
deal chest of drawers, after mahogany) is still pre- 
served. In 1837 exhibited two pictures — "Prime 
Ginger Pop" and "Mangling done here," — the 
first, at an apple-stall in Aldersgate-street ; the 
second, an admirable representation of still life, 
from a mangle in the possession of his mother 
(who has since sold it), in the maternal laun- 
dry, where it was hung on the line. In the 
following year aspired to history, and exhibited 


"The Royal Oak." As, however, it was only 
exhibited at a private view to the landlord of a 
public-house bearing that name, who declined to 
become a purchaser on the plea that he was not 
going to have such a daub disfigure his premises, 
its reception cannot be said to have been flattering. 
Turned his attention to letters, in which he suc- 
ceeded in making a name for himself (on his own 
signboard), but the pursuit of which he was 
induced to abandon on finding he had spelt 
"decorator" with a K. Resumed his former 
studies, and has since been frequently before the 
public (house) as a painter, generally in his shirt- 
sleeves, and mounted on a step-ladder. His most 
successful works have been the " Fox and Hounds" 
(1843), for which he got the money in advance, 
and the "Red Lion" (1844), for which he suc- 
ceeded in getting paid twice over. His " Pig and 
Whistle" (1852), though much admired, was con- 
sidered by his friends to have done him no good, 
as, having to take the price of it out in malt liquor, 
he acquired a taste for that fluid which has since 
materially interfered with his progress as an artist. 
Attempted to get into the Ptoyal Academy last 

96 MR. P — FE, OP THE CR — T — C. 

year, but, the shilling he offered at the door turn- 
ing out to be a bad one, was refused admittance. 

James (G. P. R.), Author. — It was towards the 
close of a lovely evening, in the early part of the 
present century, when two travellers were seen 
wending their way on the top of an omnibus 
through the rich and fertile valleys of Peckham. 
The elder, whose cheeks were bronzed by the 
scorching sun of Islington, and above whose left 
whisker was a frightful scar, which he had made 
that morning with shaving, was a man in the 
prime of life. — (This is the commencement of a 
description of James, senior, taking his son to 
school. Want of space prevents us giving the 
remainder of Mr. James's biography. We shall 
publish a list of his works in a six-volume supple- 

Nokes (Petrarch Scott Montgomery Shake- 
spear), Author. — Two-pair back, Mrs. Johnson's, 
Grub-street, Borough. Born 1828 ; bound appren- 
tice to the haberdashery business 1840 ; ran away 
from his indentures 1845 ; elected member of the 


Whittington Club 1850. Author of Theophilus 
and Angelina j a Love Story; — Oliver Cromwell; or, 
the Massacre of St. Bartholomew ; an Historical 
Eomance of the Ehine in the Tenth Century j — 
How's your Mother ? a Farce, in One Act. 



A City Street. Night. — Brownsmith, alone. 

Johnson has hastened to the omnibus. 

And now towards Fulham's world of greenery 

Bears rapidly away ! And I am left, — 

To ponder o'er my woes and my great wrong ! 

Here with great thrusts and thumpings of the 

Hot ear-tips, burning soles and scalding eyes. 
Bursting brace-buttons and unripping gloves, 
I stand and think ! 

Robinson, [entering.) 
Hast thou no solace, then ? 


Yes, one, — but one, indeed ! The sun has sunk, 
And like a clerk, who hearing six o'clock 


Strike from the clock which frowns o'er Lincoln's 

His dip extinguishes, his throat enwraps 
In comforter of woollen, various dyed, 
Sallies home Camdentown-wards through the dank 
And muggy air But now no more of this ! 


My Brownsmith, thou art troubled and perplexed. 
Hither and thither tossing in thy mind. 
As when the vexing equinoctial gales 
Harass the sea. 


Ay, thou art right ! hard spooming has my heart. 

Spit on, insulted by the brutal world ; 

The still great thoughts are rising in my mind, 

And all my soul, that greatest, purest part, 

Is planning poesy, such poesy as e'en 

Would make great wealth for Routledge or for 

Bogue ! 
"Why don't I publish ? even as the youth 
Who on the ladder's highest topmost round, 
Which to the bathing-machine tightly is attached, 



Stands all unclothed, as stood the Phrygian Jove, 

Waiting in hope, yet fearing all the while, 

Ere yet he seeks the bosom of the sea ; 

So, lo I stand ! ere to the world I give 

My treasured volume ; but to thee, my friend, 

My own dear friend, who so believes in me, 

I'll tell a portion. — Listen — 

(The remainder of the MS. is fortunately lost.) 


% tumorous IMlatt 


[Written by a diffidently-ambitious bard, who, being much 
struck by the enthusiastic reception of the Ratcatcher's 
Daughter at a popular assembly, thought he might be able to 
do something pretty nearly as good, in the same graceful and 
high-toned manner, if he were to try his hardest, and did so 
accordingly. The following is the result. ] 

Oh ! it's of a Costermonger bold, 
Who dealt in greens and carrot, 
Which, as only in a barrow he sold, 

We can't say he kept a char'ot. 
He fell in love with a sweet pooty gal, 

Her name I'm told was Nancy, 
And the Prince of Wales would have given his eyes 
For the Costermonger's Fancy. 

Gibbery gosh ! swaddleham slosh ! 

Bi fum ! ti fum ! Gollikins ! 
Jiggery crack ! swiggery whack ! 
Sillikins! Vallikins ! Frolikins ! 

To church they went, and were married straight, 
But Fortune's smiles will shirk us, 


They had five small kids, which, as trade 
went bad. 
They had to send to the verk'us. 
The Coster' he took to drinking hard, 

As likewise did fair Nancy, 
And the flat-irons all and the clothes was 
By the Costermonger's Fancy. 
Gibbery gosh ! &c. 

But of course things couldn't last like this, 

So the Coster' he swore he'd leave her, 
Which he did — and soon his pooty little bride 

Was took with the typhus fever. 
The parish doctor green bottles sent, 

" The mixture as before, for Nancy," 
She recover'd, but lost the use of her limbs, 

Did the Costermonger's Fancy. 
Gibbery gosh ! &c. 

Well, Bill (that's the Coster's name) one day 
Came home in a state of liquor, 

And finding his wife had got no tin, 
Took it into his head to kick her. 


She called him a brute — the poker he took, 
And knocked on the head Miss Nancy. 

And a case for Mr. Wakley soon 
"Was the Costermonger's Fancy. 
Gibbery gosh ! &c. 

Oh ! the coroner's inquest soon was held, 

And the foreman (a terrible joker) 
Was for letting Bill off, as he had but tried 

To instruct his wife in the Po'ka ! 
But the others said " No ; he deserves to go 

To the drop for murdering Nancy.''* 
So a drop too much, for killing, he got, 

The Costermonger's Fancy. 
Gibbery gosh ! &c. 

So they hanged poor Bill on a frosty morn, 

Just right in front of Newgit; 
Baving mad he died — such a fate, I hope, 

May ne'er either I or you get. 
But there's an end of my costermonger friend, 

As likewise of Miss Nancy; 
And I hope by the tale you've been edified, 

Of the Costermonger's Fancy. 
Gibbery gosh ! Sec. 



" A man that speaketh too much, and museth but little and 
lightly, wasteth his mind in words, and is counted a fool among 

Proverbial Philosophy. 

Thoughts that I have read in books, and gathered 

from many sources ; 
Treasures of ancient lore, mixed up with platitudes 

and truisms ; 
Caverns and grottos of science, illumined by a 

rushlight of simile ; 
Wisdom from David's son, and folly from mine 

own noddle; — 
These sell I unto thee, O feeble haunter of 

bookstalls ; 
These commend I to thy open purse, O liner of 

What though the Athenaum is loud and coarse in 

its abuse, 


Calling unpleasant names, such as " Sweet Psalmist 

of Beadledom \" 
Beadles are even as we, — our hearts can commune 

together ; 
Brains are beneath their hats, though cocked and 

bedizened with lace ; 
And strong the Berlin-gloved hand that graspeth 

the pliant cane. 
To meanest matters will I stoop, drawing on mine 

own resources : 
I will rise to noblest themes, extracting from the 

works of others. 
Thoughts are the products of the mind, the clear- 
running stream of conviction, 
Fouled by the mud of prejudice and the weeds and 

rushes of jealousy. 
Words are the efforts of speech, which a dumb 

man never can accomplish ; 
Fettered is his tongue in his mouth, — he muttereth, 

— look, none can understand him ! 
To write is to speak with a pen, an instrument of 

Gillott or goosequill ; 
And though the dumb are silent, yet writing is not 

denied to them. 


I have the power of writing — one am I among i 

Greatest of living men ; a fact easy of explanation 
An author is the greatest of mortals, a poet th( 

greatest of authors ; 
I am the greatest of poets — quod demonstrandum. 

erat ! 

6f (Pnsiir 

Christmas is a season of the year : it arriveth once 

in a twelvemonth ; 
It cometh to the wise. and good, alike with the 

wicked and foolish ; 
For there is no person so strait-laced but hath ir 

him some hankerings for pudding. 
Nor is any boy so absurd as to deny the pleasures 

of mincemeat. 
A sage is a man of wisdom ; but a fool lacketh un- 
derstanding ; 
And though a rose is scented, its stem is surrounded 

with briars. 
Go to, ye who say that Christmas cometh in the 



Apples grow not on oaks, nor are oysters made of 

granite ! 
A soul travelleth through space, and our mental 

monitors are in us, 
Though Deucalion flingeth pebbles which rise in 

array against him. 
Christmas is a time for fun — the clown's grimaces 

are pleasant. 
His face and dress are fantastic — he useth ochre 

and bismuth ; 
Despise not thou a small thing ; a gnat can hurt 

thy proboscis, 
And a needle inserted in a chair maketh an unplea- 
sant seat. 
Friends gather at this season, for Christmas is a 

winter guest, 
And the fire, shunned in June, ofttimes is welcomed 

in December. 
The grasp of a friendly hand is the sign of a good 

understanding — 
And as the kiss of palmer is palm diving into 

palm — 
Yet sometimes is the grasp deceitful, inane, and 

meaning naught, 


As a nut instead of a kernel containetli but dust 

and ashes. 
Are you surrounded by children ? Think that they 

must have once been infants, 
And as such unable to talk or to dance a lively 

Look how the bud becometh a flower, the pip an 

orchard ; 
And though there is a sun at noonday, at eve is 

the gas lighted. 
Christmas is soon past away, and such may be con- 
sidered life, 
Which is likewise the end of all things, according 

to the immortal Sarah. 

Of SImjj. 

Sleep is a function of the body ; a pleasant rest to 

the system, 
In which we cease to move or to transact our daily 



Sleeping, we are not awake, nor can we distinguish 

Though the mind stirreth ever within us with a 
keenness to carve out evil. 

Seest thou yon man on his couch, supine, and 
stretched at full length ; 

Hearest thou, the sounds from his nose reverbera- 
ting through the hushed echoes, 

Startling by their intensity, like the distant boom- 
ing of the cataract, 

And grinding on the ear of night like a dewdrop 
in an Ethiop's crown ! 

He may be considered asleep, for his senses are 
steeped in slumber, 

And as he is not awake, the chances are that he 
sleepeth ! 

Judge not of things by their events, neither by 
their outward seeming, 

And count not a man a negro because he has a 
blackened skin,— 

For the judicious mixer of rum-punch combiueth 
acidity and sweetness, 

And the best melodist of Ethiopia is ofttimes a 
native of the Dials. 


Sleep hath connexion with counterpanes, and stand- 

eth in relation to blankets, — 
Coverings pleasant to the body when pierced with 

frigidity of winter, 
For every existence in the universe leaveth room 

for progression in bliss ; 
And where sheets are not made of linen, there 

lacketh possible good. 
Nevertheless, O sleeper, pride not thyself on thy 

Nor plume thee in imaginary triumph, because 

thou art tucked in and curtained. 
Come, and I will show thee an affliction, where- 

unto nought can be likened, 
Sharp, actual, and constant, embittering the hours 

of night : 
This is the domestic flea ! he skippeth over thee 

prostrate ; 
Behold what fire is in his eye, what fervour on 

his cheek ! 
Steady and stern of purpose he quenches his sting 

in thy life blood. 
Battening on thy ruddy cheek, and leaving his 

traces behind him. 


Come, and I will tell thee of a joy which most of 
us have experienced — 

When at the door of the chamber, the hand- 
maid announceth the hour, 

Knowing it is Sunday morning, serene we turn on 
our pillow, 

Taking an extra doze, undisturbed by the troubles 
of business. 



(without any explanation as to how it got there.) 

Would ye hear the wondrous ditty 

Of the Spanish maiden won. 
Tempted from the groves of Seville, 

Far from Andalusia's sun, 
Brought to dance in northern England, 

In the Market of the Hay ? 
If you seem to care about it, 

Give attention to my lay. 

Baldovino Juan Buckstone ! 

Man of mettle, heart of oak ; 
Dauntless as Augustus Mayhew 

Cribbing some one else's joke ! 
Soul as large as the moustaches 

Over Bridgeman's lip that fall, 
Though in point of stature humble 

As the wit of Howard Paul ! 


Baldovino Juan Buckstone ! 

Man of mettle, man of stuff — 
Downy as the beard that bristles 

On the chin of William B rough. 
Man of many vast attainments, 

As to which, in point of fact, 
Seems there not the least occasion 

That the bard should be exact. 

He has been to Paris city 

(Dramas British seeks he there) ; 
He has sought the Gymnase Theatre, 

Paid his franc to the Parterre ; 
He has seen the Spanish Dancers 

Homeward wending, — winketh he 
(O'er a petit-verre of absinthe), 

" That's the sort of thing for me !" 

cc Brown Perea ! dark Perea ! 

Wilt thou come to London town ? 
Pounds a week beyond thy dreaming 

I will give thee — money down. 
In the snug Haymarket Theatre — 

Don't be nervous — try your luck ; 



Something novel's really wanted, 
Strike the bargain, there's a duck." 

She has crossed the briny ocean, 

She has got her luggage out, 
Through the Custom House at Dover, 

And her ticket seen about. 
She has made the railway porters 

Think the English women plain, 
And the master of the station 

Has enquired the way to Spain. 

" Brown Perea ! dark Perea ! " 

Shouts the call-boy up the stair, 
' ' Act the fourth is nearly over — 

Look alive and do your hair." 
Down she comes, the green-room enters, 

Seats herself upon a bench ; 
Much the authors there assembled 

Grieve they've only studied French. 

Brown Perea ! dark Perea ! 

Planche clad in patent boots 
Much regrets he hasn't master'd 

Of the Spanish tongue the roots. 


" Coyne, what's f How d'ye do/ in Spanish ?" 
Coyne is very much engaged, 
Wond'ring if in Dublin Jackeen 
A flirtation might be waged. 

Brown Perea ! dark Perea ! 

Ne'er such light on green-room broke. 
As thy beauty : Sidney Cooper 

Even makes a decent joke. 
E'en the stoic Morton dazzled 

By the captivating glare, 
Rushes out to buy a collar, 

And is seen to comb his hair. 

Chippendale is lost in wonder, 

Compton has forgot his part; 
Howe, as far as " habla ustei .<"' 

(All his stock), has made a start. 
Talfourd treads upon his gihus, 

Kenney — Taylor, gaping stand : 
Peade forgets, in his amazement, 

E'en the charms of Madame Sand. 

Brown Perea ! dark Perea ! 

They have call'd thee on to dance ; 
h 2 


Look the ladies of the theatre 

At thee with a scornful glance. 
Reynolds thinks her " rather pretty, — 

Somewhat dusky though in hue/' 
Buckingham, the mirror seeking, 
" Really hopes the thing will do." 

Up the curtain — rang'd the ballet — 

Southern damsels plump and brown, 
(Walter Lacy, in the boxes, 

Is implored to sit him down) ; 
Cavaliers, in tights and jackets, 

Seek their hands — they don't resist — 
(Walter Lacy in the boxes 

Knits his brows and shakes his fist). 

Comes the Senorita Giulio, 

(Fifteen pounds a week sbe gets,) 
Dances she the light bolero, 

To the clinking castanets. 
Comes the brave Antonio Ruiz, 

Light of limb, but swart of brow, 
Makes he pantomimic gestures 

(Walter Lacy's quiet now). 


Leads he off (not Lacy — Ruiz) 

All the corps de ballet straight 
To the fair Perea's dwelling 

(First grooves forward) — there they wait. 
And in actions most expressive, 

Help'd by tones of music low. 
Her, request to-night to come out, 

Like a maid of Buffalo. 

Down she comes — but who can picture 

With his pen the lightning's glance ? 
Who can trace Perea Nena 

Through the windings of the dance ? 
Who can fix the passing sunbeam, 

Catch the fleeting rainbow's haze ? 
Who can trace Perea Nena 

Through the Seguidilla's maze ? 

Who can ? — but it doesn't matter, 

And besides we haven't time. 
Asks the boy for heaps of copy. 

And he says there's lots of rhyme. 
On the stairs we can't detain him, 

Being somewhat short of pelf — 


Haply had the reader better 
See the lady dance himself. 

Pause we merely, just to mention 

How that Buckstone wink'd his eye, 
And remark' d he thought he'd done it, 

As delighted crowds passed by; 
And that when the bard approached him 

With congratulations, he 
Ask'd the bard to come and liquor — 

Favourable sign to see ! 

And that through proud London's city, 

From the palace to the mart, 
Nought is named but Spanish Dancers ; 

Taper waist and ankle smart, 
Gay cachuca, glad bolero, 

Light guitar and castanet, — 
With the fact that Walter Lacy 

Hasn't quite recover'd yet. 




I'm sitting in a style, Mary, 

Which doesn't coincide 
With what I've been accustom'd to 

Since you became my bride ; 
The men are singing comic s&igs, 

The lark gets loud and high, 
For I've ask'd — since you're from home, Mary,- 

A party on the sly. 

The place is rather chang'd, Mary, 

Of smoke it slightly smells, 
And the table and the floor are strewn 
. With heaps of oyster shells ; 
And the men have mark'd your damask chairs 

With many a muddy streak, 
And they've drawn burnt cork moustaches on 

Your mother's portrait's cheek. 


Fm very jolly now, Mary, 

'Midst old and valued friends, 
(Though they've in the carpet burnt some holes 

With their Havannahs' ends) . 
For thou wert somewhat cross with me, 

And ever apt to chide, 
But there's nothing left to care for now 

You're gone to the sea-side. 

And yet I fear when all you've learnt, 

This ev'ning's work I'll rue ; 
And I'll not forget it, darling, for 

You won't allow me to. 
In vain they sing, " The Pope he leads — •" 

Likewise, " Begone dull Care;" 
For at thought of you, I vow I can't 

Sit easy in my chair. 

(from the kipstone collection.) 


Bold Robin he stood in Barnsdale Wood, 

And he leant him under a tree, 
When he was aware of a stranger knight 

A-riding athwart the lea. 

And Robin he chuckled and rubbed his hands. 
And his heart was lightsome glad, 

For of late the trade in the greenwood glade 

Had been exceeding bad. 

There was never a joint in the larder cave, 

And the Malvoisie was out, 

The nut-brown ale was beginning to fail. 

And they'd tapp'd the last of the stout. 

The Friar grew thin upon lenten fare 

Of pulse and woodland roots ; 
And Little John couldn't go to town 

For want of a pair of boots. 


While Marian May in dudgeon kept 

Her bower of leaves so green ; 
For she hadn't a hood that was not in rags, 

Or a kirtle fit to be seen. 

Will Scarlet was gone to Nottinghame Fair, 
With his thimbles and his pea. 

To try and ease of their surplus cash 
The Thanes and Franklyns free. 

And Midge the Miller was with him gone, 

As a simple yeoman dress' d, 
To decoy the green ; but his garb, I ween, 

Was none of the very best. 

But little money he had to sport ; « 
And, alack ! his face was known 

To the vigilant Nottinghame police ; 
So the scheme was well-nig-h " blown." 


Their only source of income sure 
Was the minstrel Allan-a-Dale ; 

Never, I wis, that minstrel's art 
To loosen the purse might fail. 


: Read me my riddle, and tell me my tale/' 

So sang a bard of old ; 
But the genuine "craft" of Allen-a-Dale 
Has never been truly told. 

'Tvvas this — he would smirch his visage o'er 

With lampblack, oil, and soot, 
And a hideous collar of paper white 

About his cheeks would put. 

And a kerchief stiff around his neck, 

In a ghastly bow tied he. 
Twelve inches wide upon either side, 

An ogglesome sight to see ! 

And a batter'd hood of undressed felt, 

With band of funeral crape, 
He wore, with a pair of hosen striped, 

Of a weird unearthly shape. 

On a deadly instrument he play'd, 

A banjo it was hight. 
At its dismal tones, with shrieks and groans, 

The villagers fled in fright. 


To the sick man's door, and the scholar's cell, 

With this machine he'd prowl. 
And accompany its melody 

With a suicidal howl. 

And never a churl, to purchase peace 
At a shilling's price would shrink — ■ 

But the worst of it was, young Allan-a-Dale 
Would spend it all in drink. 

So you'll understand why Robin was pleased, 
And rubbed his hands with glee, 

When he was aware of a stranger knight 
A-riding athwart the lea. 


" Oh which is the way to Nottinghame Town ? ; 

The stranger knight he cried. 
" I have lost my way in the twilight gray, 

And know not where I ride." 

" Oh ! the path is vex'd," bold Eobin he said, 
" And your way you sure would lose. 

I've nought to do for an hour or two, 
A guide you will scarce refuse." 


" Now, granimercy, for thy courtesy/' 

The stranger answered he, 
" And a flagon brown, with a silver crown, 

Thy guerdon fair shall be." 

" At a flagon brown/' bold Eobin replied, 

" I shall not wince or chafe ; 
But your crowns, I fear, for to own them here 

Were neither wise nor safe." 

" Now what dost thou fear, thou timid hind ?" 

The stranger laugh' d in scorn, 
(While Robin he chuckled in secret glee 
The jewell'd hilts of the knight to see, 

And his silver bugle horn) . 

" Oh ! I fear the outlaws of merry Sherwood, 

Those daring, reckless thieves /' 
(Here Robin he acted a comic start 

At the sound of crackling leaves). 

ff The outlaws ! 'faith I would give one ear, 

To meet those gallant men ; 
I will make thy silver crown a pound 

To lead me to their den." 


1 ' Dost mean it, knight ?" " In faith do I." 

" But the outlaws rob and kill" — 
" The pamper'd priest and the usuring knave — 
They'll respect the spoils of a brother brave" — 
Said Robin — " Perhaps they will. 

" But mind, you have sought the risk yourself, 
And should anything be wrong — 

'Tis true I know where the outlaws haunt" — 
The knight said, " Cut along." 

Then Robin he took the jewell'd rein, 

The stranger humm'd a tune, 
While Robin he rated that silver horn 

As worth full many a spoon. 

And noted the suit of Milan steel, 

Its rare and costly work, 
And thought of the sum he would get for it 

At Isaac's fence in York. 

Through brake and briar they bent their way. 

Still Robin frightened seem'd, 
And the stranger rallied him playfully 

That he of danger dream'd. 


" Oh ! prithee turn back while yet there's time. 

The scheme is with clanger rife ;" 
Said the stranger " No," he would through it go, 

He wanted to see some life. 

" Then see it now !" bold Robin he cried, 

As they halted under a tree ; 
And he drew a horn from his surcoat torn, 

And blew him a blast of three. 

Quick crowded round his merry men all, 

(Excepting Allan-a-Dale, 
Who having made an uncommon haul, 
Had broken the peace in a godless brawl. 

And lay in Nottinghame Jail) . 

They bent their bows and rais'd their staves, 

The stranger wondering stood. 
Said Robin, " Lo ! I have earn'd my gold, 
These are the Sherwood outlaws bold, 

And I am Robin Hood." 


" Well play'd, r'faith !" the stranger laugh' d ; 
" An artful scheme, and deep ; 


Yet do not hold I am utterly sold, 
For I deem the honour cheap. 

" For what is a suit of Milan steel, 

And a purse with nobles fill'd, 
To the privilege rare, the sports to share, 

Of the Sherwood outlaws skill' d ? 

" Take all I have, as a merry toll, 
For the right to join your games ; 

But let me know, of this goodly show, 
Of heroes, all the names. 

" For in London town, in ball-rooms gay. 

And supper hostels late, 
I mean to brag of my loss of ' swag/ 

To a company so great. 

" And let me say I have drain'd a bowl, 
With the men of merry Sherwood, 

And grasp'd the hand of each of the band 
Of the famous Robin Hood." 

Well pleased were they with his kindly mood, 
(But more with his golden spurs), 

Will Scarlett told him at once his name, 
And Marian told him hers. 


" But where is the goodly Friar Tuck? 5 ' 

The Friar answered, " Here !" 
" Let me, at least, partake thy cup," 

And he pledg'd the Friar in beer. 

And the Miller came, and Arthur a Bland, 

The Tanner of Nottinghame, 
And never a wight of that company, 
(Save the hapless Allan, 'neath lock and key), 

But answer' d to his name. 

"Enough !" the stranger knight exclaim'd; 

"And now the spoil to yield," 
(The Miller and Tuck were quarrelling now 
For the bugle horn ; there was also a row 

As to who was to have the shield) . 

The golden chain of his silver horn, 

Off from his neck he threw, 
The outlaws' toes were upon their tips. 
When, lo ! he put it up to his lips. 

And a ringing blast he blew. 

From briar and shrub, from brake and scrub, 
A band of armed men, 



In jerkins blue, with cudgels true, 
And badges "A," "B," "One" and "Two," 
Swarm' d o'er the outlaws' den. 

" Your warrants serve !" the stranger's voice 

Rang through the startled vale. 
" I've got the names of ev'ry one. 
Nor may they prompt confinement shun 

Without sufficient bail." 


'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in gay Sherwood, 
Where the birds their songs are dinning, 

But not so merry in Nottinghame Jail 
Where the treadmill-wheel is spinning. 

Bold Robin is doom'd to labour hard 
For six months out of the twelve, 

And Scarlett Will for the Lincoln Docks 
Is doom'd the shore to delve. 

The Friar pines in a lonely cell. 

In a suit of hodden gray, 
With a tonsur'd head, and his drink consists 

Of cocoa twice a- day; 


And all that band of outlaws bold, 

In vilest durance grieve, 
With the base exception of Little John, 
"Who the penitent dodge has well tried on, 

And earned a ticket of leave. 

Fair Marian's fingers oakum pick, 

For her wicked comrades' crimes. 
The month of Allan-a-Dale is out, 
But they're writing indignant letters about 
His banjo to The Times. 


i % 



The Garcon is a wondrous man, 

He answers to Baptiste ; 
His waistcoat sleeves are calico. 

His slippers are of list. 
He scrubs the chamber with his feet 

Instead of with his fist. 

He wears a cotton velvet cap, 

Which deftly he removes 
When summoned to my room, and in 

An apron pocket shoves. 
Containing letters, countless keys, 

His pipe and cleaning-gloves. 

He wakes me in the morning up, 
He hopes Fve slumbered well. 

He envies folks, he says, not doom'd 
To drudge for an hotel. 


The Garcon, I'm inclined to think, 
Would like to be a swell. 

He takes an interest in me, 
Will dainties recommend ; 

He chides me when I stop out late, 
He knows how that must end ; 

Is hard upon my morning draughts : 
He treats me as a friend. 

He lingers with the breakfast things, 

Discoursing at the door, 
Or, warming with his subject, stops, 

And puts them on the floor : 
It never enters in his head 

That he can be a bore ! 

His philosophic creed is based 

Upon the Cynic school, 
Women he thinks amusing toys, 

But worthless as a rule ; 
His mistress is an arrant shrew, 

His master is a fool. 


He watches late, and labours hard, 

He loiters when he dares ; 
They always want him in the court 

When up six flights of stairs ; 
" Voi-la!" he screams, and hurries down, 

And on the way he swears. 

He has two hundred boots to clean, 

Eight staircases to wipe ; 
I know not when or where he sleeps, 

Or takes his wine and tripe. 
His only solace seems, at eve, 

A contemplative pipe ! 




To boil Cabbage — it is necessary to procure a 
cabbage. Wash in cold water; which, throw 
down a gutter, or outside a tent if no gut- 
ter be procurable. Be careful not to splash 
trousers, especially in frosty weather. Stick a 
two-pronged fork boldly into the cabbage (a 
bayonet will do equally well), and plunge it 
into a saucepan of water just at boiling point. 
When it has boiled for eight minutes, twenty- 
five seconds, throw eleven-fifteenths of a tea- 
spoonful of salt into the water. Let the cabbage 
boil till it is thoroughly done. At that moment 
be on the watch to take it out of the saucepan 
(taking care to avert the face from the steam), 
and place in a vegetable dish. Put the cover 
on, and serve up with roast beef, ortolans, veni- 
son, pickled pork, or whatever may come handiest. 


An old helmet will supply the place of a saucepan. 
Cauliflowers may be cooked in the same manner ; 
and, indeed, most things. 

To fry Bacon. — Cut your bacon into long strips, 
or rashers. Wipe your frying-pan out with a 
coarse towel, or lining of old dressing-gown. 
Then place it gently (so as not to knock the 
bottom out) over a brisk fire. Place the rashers 
in, one by one. When they are done on one side, 
turn them over to do on the other. When they 
have attained a rich brown, take them out and 
arrange them on a dish, or slice of bread, or any- 
thing. Watch your rashers, so that the sentinel 
outside doesn't get at them ; and eat when you feel 
inclined. The gravy may be sopped up from the 
frying-pan with crumbs of bread. If only biscuit 
is to be obtained, use the fingers, which lick care- 
fully. The rind may be preserved in the waistcoat 
pocket, for sucking while on duty. 

'Roast Potatoes. — Put your potatoes under the 
stove, and rake hot embers over them. While 
they are cooking, get as much butter as the com- 


missariat will allow you, and put it on a clean 
dish ; or , a dirty one, with half a sheet of writing- 
paper on it (indeed, in an extreme case, the writ- 
ing-paper will enable you to dispense with the 
dish altogether) . Taste the butter, but don't eat 
it all up till the potatoes are done. Great care 
will be required for the observance of the latter 
regulation. Cut the butter into dice of from six 
to seven-eighths of a cubic inch. When the pota- 
toes are done, cut them open and insert a dice of 
butter in each, closing the potato rapidly to pre- 
vent evaporation. Eat with pepper and salt, or 
whatever you can get. 

Another Method. — If you can't get any butter, 
do without it. 

Potatoes and Point. — This is a very popular dish 
in Ireland, and one which I have frequently par- 
taken of in that country. The method of prepar- 
ing it in the Crimea is as follows : — Boil a dish of 
potatoes, and serve up hot, with a watch-glass full 
of powdered salt. When they are ready for eat- 
ing, point, with the fore-finger of the right hand, 


in a north-westerly direction, where the regions of 
beef are supposed to exist. 

Bread and pull-it — is a dish somewhat resembling 
the last, but of English origin. Take a loaf of 
bread (previously having obtained permission to 
do so) and pull it in half; eat with sardines or 
rum-and-water. This dish requires little or no 

Churchwarden Soup. — Go round to the doors of 
the various tents and collect all the egg-shells you 
can find ; boil them for two hours, and on the 
scale of two quarts of water to half-a-dozen egg- 
shells; drink hot, but not too much at a time. 
A little fresh beef, a bunch or two of sweet herbs, 
an onion, and some vermicelli (half a pound to the 
quart) would be found an improvement, but are by 
no means indispensable. 

Frontage a Vecolier Anglais. — I learnt how to 
prepare this plat on the occasion of a recent visit to 
a charity-school, where a young relative of mine is 
completing his education, and who, indeed, showed 


ne the entire process. He performed it as fol- 
ows : — He took the largest lump of cheese on 
;he supper-plate (thrashing a smaller boy who 
ittempted to dispute its possession with him), and 
iroceeded to cut it up into dice (this form is indis- 
pensable on all occasions whatsoever) with his 
locket-knife. He then, from the satchel of the 
youngest boy in the school, selected a slate, which 
ae immediately broke over the proprietor's head 
nto several small pieces, on one of which he placed 
lis cheese. He then informed his schoolfellows, 
issembled round the evening candle, that if they 
lid not get out of the way he would punch their 
leads into the middle of next week. This left him 
in open field for his culinary operations. I observed 
jhat he held the cheese, carefully balanced on the 
oit of slate, over the candle, and allowed it to 
irizzle till the heat of the slate burnt his fingers, 
md caused him to howl. This was a signal that 
lis cheese was done enough, or, at all events, that 
le had better not try to do it any more. He ate it 
served up on a desk, garnished with candle-snuff, a 
ittle ink, and a tablespoonful of tears. I think I 
ilso noticed a wafer, which would, no doubt, give it 


a zest. I have not tasted the dish myself, but the 
accuracy of the recipe may be relied on. 

Green Peas in a Crimean Winter. — Boil half a 
pint of white peas, and put on green spectacles, — 
the peas will appear green. Mock turtle may be 
procured by the same expedient. Cut up a bit of 
salt pork (into dice, of course), and the coloured 
vitreous medium above-mentioned will give it the 
appearance of green fat. 

Camp Asparagus. — None but a Londoner can 
enjoy this dish thoroughly. It consists merely of 
a slice of pork converted into asparagus by the 
force of imagination, aided by the reflection that 
" all flesh is grass." 




The sobbing beef 
Vrithes like a martyr on th' impaling spit, 
loaning and heaving piteously ; and now 
n speechless suffering, with Promethean strength 
Enduring all ; then, madden' d with despair 
'hat the slow burning torture which consumes 
lis mighty sides will, spite of him, wring forth 
iig scalding tears of anguish — with a scream 
)f baffled impotence he spits and foams 
L t his grim conqueror, the tyrant Fire, 
Vb.o, clad in iron mail, with helm of flame 
aid nodding plume of smoke, with ashy face 
Hares at the captive giant through his bars. 

* * The beef is done ! 




They coovered poor Stephen Blackpool's face ! 

The crowd from the Old Hell Shaft pressed 
around him. Mr. Gradgrind ran to look at the 
sufferer's face, but in doing so, he trod on a daisy, 
He wept : and a hundred and sixty more of his 

* It would seem that the striking want of poetical justice in 
the usually-received termination of this otherwise excellent storVj 
wherein none of the good people were made happy, and the 
wicked were most inadequately punished, had caused the authoi 
to tremble for his popularity among the female portion of the 
community — who, it is well known, will stand no liberties oi 
that description. He has therefore (apparently) re-written it on 
more orthodox principles ; or (not improbably) got somebody 
else to re-write it for him ; or (as is barely possible) somebody 
else has re- written it for him without asking his leave. We have 
no means of ascertaining the exact state of the case. The 
reader is requested to form his own opinion, and let us know at 
his earliest convenience. Our business hours are from twelve to 
half- past, but our address is a profound secret. — EDS. O. M. 


hairs turned gray. He would tread on no more 
daisies ! 

He was not, however, to be baulked in his 
humble, honest purpose of self-reform. As he 
passed over the common, a donkey kicked him. It 
reminded him that facts were stubborn things : 
and he had done with facts and stubbornness. He 
wept again. 

" Rachel, beloved lass, art thou by me ?" 
" Ay, Stephen ; how dost thou feel ?" 
" Hoomble and happy, lass. I be grateful and 
thankful. I be obliged to them as have brought 
charges o' robbery agin me ; an' I hope as them as 
did it will be happy an' enjoy the fruits. I do 
only look on my being pitched down that theer 
shaft, and having all my bones broke, as a mercy 
and a providence, and God bless ev'rybody !" 
" Stephen, your head be a wandering." 
" Ay, lass ; awlus a muddle." 
" Will you take anything, Stephen ?" 
" I do hoombly thank thee for a good and trew 
lass thou hast awlus been to me ; and I dunnot 
care if I do take a little soomut warm — wi 5 a little 


The sobered man had still credit at the neigh- 
bouring tavern. In two seconds he appeared with 
a steaming glass of rum-and-water, scarcely stop- 
ping to sip it by the way. 

" Can thou drink rum, Stephen ?" asked Rachel, 
taking the tumbler from the hands of the sobered 
man for fear of accidents. 

" I do hoombly and kindly thank thee, lass," 
said poor Stephen ; " I can drink anything." 

Rachel placed the goblet to his parched and 
quivering lips. 

There was a moment of breathless silence. Mr. 
Bounderby rattled three-and-sixpence in his 
breeches pocket, and finding his ostentation was 
unnoticed, kicked a little boy down the Old Hell 
Shaft. Mr. Gradgrind purchased a pennyworth 
of violets from a blue-eyed flower-girl, and true to 
his new and trusting creed, accepted two counter- 
feit farthings as change for a sovereign without 
looking at them. The Whelp glared fiercely at 
the rum-and- water, and barked. 

Stephen drank it, every drop. Finished. Down 
to the dregs. No heel-taps. 

" I do hoombly thank thee, Rachel, good and 


trew lass as thou hast been to me ; but I do feel 
much better." 

" Oh, here !" Mr. Bounderby blustered forward : 
" I'm not going to stand this. If a man suspected 
of robbing Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown's 
Bank, is to feel f much better/ I should like to 
know what's the use of Old Hell Shafts. There's 
a touch of the gold-spoon game in that ; and I'm 
up to the gold-spoon game — rather ! And it wont 
go down with Josiah Bounderby. Of Coketown. 
Not exactly. Here ! Where's a constable ?" 

There was none. Of course not. There never is, 
when wanted. 

Mrs. Sparsit and Bitzer pressed officiously for- 
ward, and volunteered to take Stephen into custody. 

" Shame !" cried the populace. 

" Oh, I dare say," said Mr. Bounderby ; " I'm a 
self-made man, and, having made myself, am not 
likely to be ashamed of anything. There, take 
him along-." 

There was a movement, as if for a rescue. The 
sobered man had been sober quite long enough 
without a fight, and tucked up his sleeves. 

Stephen prevented this explosion. 



" Noa, lads," he said, in his meek broken voice 
" dunnot try to resky me. I be fond o' consta- 
bles. I like going to prison. As for hard labour 
I ha' been used to that long enough. "WT regarc 
to law — it's awlus a muddle." 

" Off with him !" said Mr. Bounderby. « Wher 
I used to commit robberies, I never had any rum 
and-water given to me. No, nor didn't tall 
about muddles. And I'm worth sixty thousand 
pounds, and have got ladies of family — ladies o 
family;" — he raised his voice to call attention t( 
Mrs. Sparsit, who was ambling gently along witl 
the submissive Stephen on her august shoulders-^ 
" acting as beasts of burden for me. Come up 
madam !" And he gave Mrs. Sparsit a gentli 
touch of his whip, causing that high-nosed lady t< 
prance a little. 

They moved on, towards Coketown. The lighti 
were beginning to blink through the fog. Ldk< 
winking. The seven o'clock bells were ringing 
Like one o'clock. Suddenly the tramp of horsei 
and the fierce barking of a dog were heard. 

With a wild cry, Sissy recognised Sleary's com 
pany galloping towards them — all mounted ; Mr 


Sleary himself, grown much stouter, on his won- 
derful trained Arab steed, Bolivar; J. W B. 
Childers, who had apparently not had time to 
change his dress, as the Indian warrior on the 
celebrated spotted Pegasus of the Caucasus ', Kid- 
derminster following, on the comic performing 
donkey, Jerusalem. 

A dog, far in advance of the horserriders, 
dashed amongst the astonished crowd, and singling 
out Mr. Bounderby, seized him by the scruff of 
the neck. 

" Thath wight, Mewwylegth," cried Mr. S., 
coming up panting (in addition to his former lisp, 
advancing age had afflicted him with a difficulty 
in pronouncing his r's) . " Thath the vewy identical 
cove : pin him ! Good dog \" 

" Help ! murder \" cried the bully of humility, 
struggling with the animal. fe Will you see a man 
worth sixty thousand pounds devoured by a dog ?" 

The prospect seemed to afford the bystanders 
considerable satisfaction. 

" Ith no uthe, Thquire," said Sleary, calmly ; 
" the dog wont let go hith hold of you ;" and he 
added, in a hissing voice, " ith Jupetli dog !" 



"It's a lie," Bounderby faltered; "I didn'1 
murder him — he did it himself. I never saw the 
man. He hit me first. I never spoke to a clown 
in my life. Tear this hound off." 

" Quite enough, Thquire," said Sleary. " I call 
on everybody in the Queenth name to athitht nu 
in arethting thith man, Jothiah Bounderby, for tht 
murder of my clown, Jupe, thickthteen yearth ago." 

Sissy fainted into the Whelp's arms. From that 
moment the latter quadruped resolved to lead a 
virtuous life. 

Mrs. Sparsit and Bitzer, with the alacrity of 
timeservers, released Stephen, and seized on their 
former patron. Stephen slipped quietly away in 
the confusion of the moment, remarking, with a 
wink of satisfaction to Rachel, " Awlus a mud- 
dle !" 

Merrylegs retained his hold on his victim's 
throat. Like a vice. 

" Murder !" cried Bounderby ; " release me from 
this dog, or demon, and I will confess all." 

" Mewwylegth, come here, thir !" 

Merrylegs released his victim. 

" Well, then," said the detected miscreant, des- 


perately, — sixteen years ago I murdered the man, 
Jupe, to obtain possession of eigh teen-pence,* with 
which I entered Coketown, and set up in business. 
And now, do your worst." 

The crowd recoiled in horror. The sobered man 
picked up Mr. Bounderby's hat, that had dropped 
off in the scuffle, and immediately pawned it. 

" Off with him !" cried Sleary, in a tone of 
theatrical authority, — " to jail \" 

To jail ! to jail ! to jail ! 


Towards town. The crowd gathering. Like a 
snowball. Much dirtier, though. Rather. 

" Bitzer." 

The whisper was so hoarse that the light-porter 
scarcely recognised his master's tones. 


* There is a trifling anachronism here. Bounderby having 
been represented as already prosperous at the time of Jupe's 
iisappearance. These little accidents; however, will happen 
in the best regulated plots. 


" I have twenty sovereigns in my pocket. Le 
me slip away, and they are yours." 

" Thank you, sir ; but I have calculated that^ b; 
letting you be locked up all night, and going bac 
and robbing the Bank, I shall make a much bette 
thing of it. You must please to remember that 
have my way to make." 

" Will the key of the safe tempt you ?" 

" Thank you, sir ; — that might be a considera 

Bounderby slipped it into the light-porter' 
hand. In an instant he was gone, into the dark 
ness, up an entry. In a few seconds, by a how 
resembling the cry of a pack of hounds baffled ii 
their scent, he knew that his escape had been dis 

" There is no time to be lost," he muttered. H 
entered a chemist's shop. 

" A pint of strychnine !" 

" I beg your pardon, sir ; but what do you wan 
it for ?" 

" For a dog," said Bounderby, gnashing hi 
teeth fiercely, as he thought of Merrylegs. 

" Thank you ; — you can keep the change." 


He seized the poison with avidity, and rushed 
into the street. The cries of his pursuers came 
nearer. It was a fearful night — just the sort of 
night for a man to poison himself in. He placed 
the potion to his lips. 

What appeared an animated mass of rags darted 
up from a dark corner, and seized the bottle from 
his hand. 

" Aha !" said a drunken female voice, " a sly 
drain, eh, old hoy? Half shares, though. I 
haven't had a sup of anything good these two 
hours. Here's your health." 

Ere he could arrest her movement, the drunken 
wife of Stephen Blackpool had drained the bottle 
to the dregs, and lay a squalid, loathsome corpse at 
his feet. 

"Baffled, by Heaven!" cried Bouuderby, spurn- 
ing the lifeless object with his left highlow. 

The pursuers were approaching. Their angry 
murmurs grew more and more distinct. The 
barking of the dog was terrible. 

What was to be done ? 

Give himself up. To justice? To be hanged — 
by the neck — till he was dead ? No ! He had raised 


himself from nothing, and he was not the man to 
trample on his own origin, if he could help it. 

Lights at the end of the street. 

" Bow ! wow ! wow ! G-r-r-r-r-r-r \" 

The dog again ! How he wished the lights were 
in an edible form, and might choke the infuriated 
quadruped ! 

" G-r-r-o-o-o-o-w ! Yap I" 

" He is gaining on him. Good dog ! at himj 
Merrylegs ! S — s — tt ! Murderers, boy, mur- 
derers I" 

" Bow-ow-ow-o-o-o-o-w ! Yap !" 

There is scarcely an inch between the muzzle of 
the avenging Merrylegs and the seat of the inex- 
pressibles that were considered, scarce an hour ago, 
worthy to press the highest judicial seat of Coke- 
town. Another leap, and he has him by the 
trousers ! 

A yell of exultation bursts from the infuriated 
multitude. > 

Smash ! crash ! the head of Bounderby strikes 
against a door. The brave old oak resists the 
shock manfully. Ha J it is the door of his own 
mill — the Fairy Palace. There is yet hope ; the 


latch-key quivers in the lock : — squeak ! creak ! — 
the door yields. Bump ! thump ! It is barricaded 
from within, and the baffled Merrylegs stands in 
the street alone, with the yet palpitating seat of 
Mr. Boun derby's trousers in his extended jaws. 


His melancholy-mad elephants were at work. 
They were always at work — day and night. I 
shouldn't like to be a melancholy-mad elephant, 
to be always at work — night and day. Should 
you ? Not that I don't now and then sit up all 
night myself. But on those occasions I am not 
melancholy. By no means. Nor in the elephan- 
tine line. Quite the contrary. Mr. Bounderby 
entered the engine-room. There was a window at 
the back, by which he might let himself down 
into the Warren's Blacking river that supplied 
the mill, and so swim as far as Liverpool. He was 
alone, — the night-watchman of course had gone 
out for the evening. He could hear the crowds 
battering at the door below. In a few minutes 
he would be in custody. 


The melancholy-mad elephants occupied a good 
deal of room. As will be the case with ill- 
tempered asthmatic old gentlemen, the building 
that contained them seemed insufficient space for 
them to wheeze and squeeze, and groan and moan, 
and mutter and splutter in. It required the 
greatest precaution, on the part of Mr. Bounderby, 
to step over the foaming cylinders, exhausted re- 
ceivers, cranks, levers, and what not, to reach the 
desired window in safety. 

At length he opened it* 

" Bow-ow-ow-ow ! Gr-r-r-r !" 

The dog again ! Jupe's avenging angel ! In 
at the window. Sixteen stories high ! But of 
what is the dog not capable ? 

Bounderby fell back. Into what? Into the 
clutches of the melancholy-mad elephants. The 
fly-wheel caught him, Whirr ! Burr ! Whiz ! 
Fiz ! Round and round he went ! He was a 
self-made man, but he had not made himself of 
sufficiently strong materials to resist the influence 

of the melancholy-mad elephants. 


In the morning, a mother-of-pearl shirt button 


and a fragment of a broad blue cloth coat-skirt 
were all the remains of the once prosperous 
Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown ! 

* * * -x- * 

Little remains to be told. Rachel and Stephen 
were married. The robbery of the bank was fixed 
upon Mrs. Sparsit and Bitzer. As the house 
of Bounderby, however, had never issued any- 
thing but forged notes, the culprits were soon 
detected in the attempt to pass some of them. 
Sissy married the reformed Whelp, and reared a 
large family of puppies. Mr. Gradgrind ended 
his days as a clown to Sleary's troop. He had had 
a lesson in the futility of facts, and during his en- 
gagement could never be prevailed upon to accept 
wages. He lived by borrowing sixpences of the 
rest of the company — as a penance. 

Mr. James Harthouse returned from Jerusalem, 
determined to go in for the domestic virtues. He 
proposed to Louisa, and was accepted. They were 

Sleary's company went to America, and got 
engaged by Barnum. Of course they returned 


with fortunes. Sleary himself, in consideration of 
his disinterested efforts to secure Bounderby, was 
made Master of the Horse. 

J. W. B. Childers won £150,000 upon the last 
Derby. The horse had been trained to lose by 

Kidderminster grew ten inches after the age 
of twenty-seven, and was immediately appointed 
to a colonelcy in the Scots Greys. The sobered 
man, ashamed of his former conduct, never 
became so again. Macchoakumchild was carried 
off by a severe attack of his own name. 

Mrs. Sparsit and Bitzer were transported. The 
former, through her high connexions, was enabled 
to obtain a ticket-of-leave before the customary 
time had elapsed. She set up a boarding-house, 
and lived by poisoning gold-diggers. As she had 
amassed a considerable fortune by the time Bitzer 
obtained Ms ticket, the latter assassinated her for 
her property, and was executed. 

And now, reader, let us love one another. If 

you will, I will. I can't say fairer. And so, God 

bless us all. 



Bt albeet smiff. 

From my earliest youth I have had a passion for 
"ascents" of various descriptions. Long before I 
had even seen a balloon, I had acquired great prac- 
tice in that exciting species of aerial ascent known 
as raising the wind. I was also a great adept at 
running up shots of unprecedented elevation. I 
was always fond of getting "up a tree." But 
unquestionably my favourite plan of ascent was 
the process familiarly and expressively characterised 
as "putting things up." 

Prom this the reader will gather that I have had 
a good deal of up-hill work in my time, and will 
not be surprised to learn that, being sent by my 
parents to study for the medical profession at the 
Closerie des Lilas, in the Quartier Latin, Paris, my 
attention was naturally directed towards the cele- 


brated Mont de Piete. Several of my com- 
panions had attempted to reach this redoubtable 
eminence, some with a success that had surpassed 
their expectations, others meeting with repulse and 
discomfiture. The courage of many had failed 
them on breaking the first ice ; the success of the 
former inspired me with emulation. By the 
failures of the latter I was nothing daunted. As 
I have indicated, I always had a passion for this 
sort of thing. At a very early age my brother and 
myself had made the tour of the metropolis, carry- 
ing with us a very simple apparatus, being in fact 
nothing more than a box containing an ordinary 
magic-lantern and slides — which we had the honour 
of exhibiting before some of the most distinguished 
London pawnbrokers. The success of this under- 
taking (two and nine-pence, deducting twopence 
for the duplicate) encouraged us to further exer- 
tion in the same field, on a wider basis. We 
accordingly made the same circuit, accompanied 
by our respected father's oxy-hydrogen micro- 
scope. This was less favourably received ; in 
fact, they wouldn't take it in at all, and we got 


I will pass over the various fluctuations of pur- 
>ose that intervened between my first conception 
if the ascent I am about to describe, and my reso- 
lution to achieve it. I will not speak of the labour 
t was represented it would cost me, and the little 

should gain by it ; suffice it that eventually the 
\Iont de Piete became an idee fixe with me, to 
;uch a pitch of intensity that I found I could 
leither eat, drink, nor sleep, unless I made the 

I accordingly resolved to do it, and hastened to 
Droyide myself with the necessary guides and pro- 

Two intelligent young Frenchmen, named re- 
spectively Jules and Alphonse, were recommended 
x> me as the persons most intimately acquainted 
svith the various ins and outs of the exciting journey 
t proposed taking. Both these gallant youths 
bad been up the Mont de Piete frequently, as 
well on their own account as in the capacity of 
ciceroni to others, and were not a bit deterred by 
bhe prospect of another ascent. On the contrary, 
they urged me to undertake it warmly, volunteer- 
ing to act as my guides with the greatest alacrity; 


— they would not even put any price on their 
services ; they merely stipulated that I should pro- 
vide them with refreshments on the way, declaring 
that the prospect alone (that of going to a masked 
ball at Prado in the evening, which none of us 
could have a chance of seeing, except from the 
eminence of the Mont de Piete) would amply 
repay them for their trouble. 

We met by appointment at an early hour one 
lovely July morning, at my own apartment, 
No. 316b, Rue St. Jaques au Septieme. After 
a very slight repast (I should state that it is cus- 
tomary to eat very little, immediately before 
attempting the ascent) we commenced our prepa- 
rations. Jules informed me it would be necessary 
to provide myself with as much wearing apparel 
as possible. It would be as well also to take a 
few books with us. Seeing a silk umbrella in a 
corner of the room, Alphonse recommended me on 
no account to leave it behind, as we might want 
it. I was advised also to take my instruments 
with me, in case of accidents. 

I accordingly made up into the form of a knap- 
sack the following articles : — 


1 dress coat. 

1 pair ditto trousers. 

2 summer waistcoats. 
1 pair Wellingtons. 

1 ditto dress Alberts.* 

1 volume Quain's Anatomy. 

4 ditto Paul de Koch's works. 

2 ditto Spiers's Dictionary. 

Jules took charge of the instruments, Alphonse 
of the umbrella, and with light hearts we set 
forth on our adventurous undertaking, singing in 
unison the appropriate melody of 

Pop goes the "Weasel ! 
in independent version of which each of my com- 
panions readily improvised, on the theme being 
sxplained to them. 

Our course lay down the Rue de Mazarin 
and across the Pont des Arts, which we reached 
with comparatively few interruptions at the various 
intervening wine-shops. On the bridge we held a 
consultation as to the state of our finances, and 

* A neat and economical species of chaussure, which I regret 
;o see has fallen into disuse, through the abolition of straps. 



decided that they were sufficiently flourishing to 
afford a sou to the stout, purple-faced, blind old 
lady with the accordeon, who makes herself so 
comfortable in that locality, and who having been 
born blind, may alone be said, of all the female 
population of Europe, to have some excuse for 
wearing the hideous mushroom straw hat, of which 
she is the acknowledged inventress. This work of 
charity accomplished, we passed through the 
Louvre, and crossed the perilous Rue de Rivoli in 
safet}^, after little more than the average amount of 
rows with the stone-cutters and cockers de fiacre. 

The Mont de Piete, as the world well knows, 
(that is, such portions of the world as have ever 
visited Paris with a view to study), is situated on 
the fourth floor of a house in the Rue Richelieu, at 
the back of the Palais Royal. We halted breath- 
lessly, not without a feeling of awe, in sight of our 
destination ! 

As I placed my foot on the threshold, I confess 
my resolution gave way. Jules slapped me on the 
back and cried, " Du courage!" Alphonse hit 
upon the more practical expedient of dragging me 
across to the opposite Commerce de vins, and ad- 


ministering a petit verre, for which (together with 
one each for himself and comrade) he in the kindest 
manner allowed me to pay. After this, I felt prepared 
for anything, and bade my guides lead the way. 

We commenced the ascent. Nothing; of im- 
portance happened till we reached the eirst land- 
ing, when my spirits began to give way. The 
view that presented itself was anything but cheer- 
ing. I might be asked out to dinner in the course 
of the week, and what was I to do for a dress coat ? 
I mentioned my scruples to my companions, who 
laughed them away, assuring me that their ward- 
robes were quite at my service. As I knew they 
carried those valuable possessions on their backs, 
this failed to satisfy me, and I was on the point of 
turning back. Fear of ridicule, however, induced 
me to proceed, and we reached the second landing. 

At the third landing I sat down completely 
Dvercome, declaring I would proceed no further. 
[t had just occurred to me, that the uncle who had 
made me a present of the Spiers' s Dictionaries (and 
? rom whom I had further expectations) would be 
.n Paris in a few days. What could I say to him ? 
[' fairly burst into tears, overcome by the weakness 

l 3 


of my situation. My guides assured me that this 
was no uncommon symptom on the occasion of a 
first ascent, and declared that I should soon get 
over it. I refused, however, to budge a step, of 
my own accord, and they had literally to drag and 
push me up the remainder of the ascent. 

At the fourth landing I forgot my fears, and 
wholly recovered my self-possession. A small 
green door stood before us, on which was an oval 
brass plate inscribed with the words, 


Tournez le bouton, 
S. V. P." 

Jules turned the button with the carelessness of an 
habitue, the door opened, and the splendour of the 
Mont de Piete burst on my astonished sight. 

I shall never forget the sight as long as I live. 
We were in a spacious apartment, well lighted, 
and containing a counter and shelves, with — 
nothing on them. I was at once forcibly re- 
minded of a shop in Holywell-street with an 
execution in the house. This idea took possession 
of me to the exclusion of all others, 


" Jules/' I whispered, " where do they put the 
things that are au chon ?" * 

"They go to the Depot Central." 

" Bon." 

A well-dressed lady-like person, of middle age, 
advanced from a desk where she had been writing, 
and held out her hand for my consignment. 

I then understood why the common relation 
known as " my uncle " in this country, become 
ma tante across the water. 

" Voire now ? said the lady. 

" John Hardup." 

" Etes vous Stranger ?" 

" Oui." 

" Voire passe-port, s'il vous plait." 

There was a difficulty that had not been fore- 
seen. I had left my passport at home. I requested 
my friends to wait while I ran back for it. This 
they opposed with indecent alacrity, Jules insist- 
ing that I should remain in the custody of Alphonse 
while he went in search of the required document. 

* "The Spout" is an institution unknown in France. It is 
supposed that the present enterprising Emperor will introduce it 
among his numerous improvements. 


I submitted with reluctance, and with still greater 
intrusted the messenger with the key of my secre- 
taire, which I knew contained half-a-dozen choice 
Havannah cigars. There was also a bottle of 
brandy in the chamber, barely half finished. 

In about half an hour Jules returned, very red 
in the face, and with a certain thickness in his 
speech. He held in his hand a bout de cigarre, which 
I at once recognised by its odour, — so widely dif- 
ferent to that of the cabbage-leaf bolsters which 
the Emperor Napoleon insists on your buying at 
his establishment. 

The passport was all right, and the lady chef de 
bureau summed up on paper the different amounts 
to which she considered me entitled for the custody 
of my valuables. The items were as follow : — 

Habit (tres vieux) 

Pantalon (decMre) 

1 jpaire de bottes (semelles usees) 

7 livres 3 

1 parapl/uie {sans jpomme) , 

Boite d : 'instruments 15 

Total . . . 26 50 




, 1 








Alphonse pleaded eloquently for twenty francs 
on the instruments, and five on the coat. The 
lady treated his arguments with supreme indif- 
ference. The dress Alberts and the gillets cVete 
were ignominiously rejected as of no pecuniary 
value whatever. 

Altogether I was greatly disappointed with my 
first ascent of the Mont de Piete. 

The necessary documents made out (which occu- 
pied an immense deal of time, and apparently a 
few quires of paper), and the money handed over, 
we prepared for the descent. This was effected 
with great rapidity — in fact, at the rate of six 
stairs at a time, — but not without accidents; in- 
deed, it had nearly proved fatal to one of the guides, 
Jules, who, not having the steadiest footing, slipped 
on the second landing (recently frotte by a careful 
locataire), and was all but precipitated over the 
banisters into the yawning chasm beneath. This 
calamity was fortunately avoided. 

On reaching the open air, we were enthusiasti- 
cally received by a number of the inhabitants of 
the Quartier Latin, who had been attracted by the 
rumour of our intended ascent. They kissed me 


all round, and it was with difficulty I could prevent 
them from carrying me on their shoulders to the 
Commerce de vins already alluded to, whither we 
all adjourned. 

In the evening a grand ball was given at Prado. 
Need I say that the hero of the fete was he who 
had so recently effected the perilous ascent of the 

On summing up the expenses of the expedition, 
I find they amounted to the following : — 

Fr. Cts. 

Petits canons for self and guides on 

the way ... ... 

Gratuity to musical professor . 
Petits verres for self and guides 
Cost of cognac and Havannah cigar 

abstracted by messenger 
Regaling inhabitants of Quartier Latin, 

assembled to congratulate . . 
Six dinners, at lfr. 10c. . . 

Six billets de bal at Prado . . 
Sundries at Prado, and afterwards 

Total .... 


. 1 






. 1 





. 6 


. 6 

. 7 






Men are fools. I know it. I do not mean to 
speak personally, either of myself or of my readers. 
When I write, I write strongly — that is, in feeling ; 
and for that reason I prefer indulging in the 
dream-land of the abstract, to chaining myself to 
the dreary realities of the concrete, and perforce 
remaining there like a modern Prometheus, with 
a vulture (I mean my fancy, not my appetite) 
gnawing my vitals. I have said that men are 
fools — none will dispute my proposition in its 
rationalistic idiosyncrasy. Look at the history of 
the world : Marc Antony was a fool, or he would 
never have fallen a sacrifice to the Egyptian who 
crossed his path with her beauty, as Egyptians (or 
gipsies, for it is all the same thing) cross our hands 
now-a-days at Epsom and Ascot to steal our money. 
Cleopatra was a fool. You say she was a woman, 
not a man : I foresee your objection — I detect your 


sophism, for if she made a fool of a man, I say she 
showed pre-eminently masculine qualities. Cleo- 
patra was a fool ; had she not been so, she would 
have gone to Rome with Csesar, and done as Rome 
did. I come nearer to our times : Don Quixote 
was a fool. What had he to do with tilting at 
windmills, if he had his hot rolls and butter every 
morning ? — and there is nothing whatever in history 
to show that he had not. Sir Christopher Hatton 
was a fool, to be handed down to posterity as simply 
an Elizabethan Baron Nathan. Then, what shall 
I say, with such examples from the past before, 
respecting our present hopes of the future ? Has 
mankind changed ? I say No ! boldly. Are cre- 
ditors more lenient ? I say No. Cab hire is cheaper, 
I admit ; but are the drivers altered ? I say No. 
Trousers are made for sixteen shillings; but are 
tailors less punctual in sending in Christmas bills ? 
No, no, no. — I repeat it. The truth is, that with 
regard to the philosophy of society we stand in an 
awkward predicament. Give me five minutes with 
a man who predicates grandly of the future. What 
will he say ? Let him speak. If he is silent, I 
am sufficiently answered. How should I otherwise 


address him ? I should simply say — " What are 
you standing on ? A visionary cloud — away with 
such metaphysical dreams ! Advance, and you are 
lost; retreat, and destruction awaits you. Move 
on either side, and a bottomless abyss yawns 
beneath your feet. What can you do ?" Practise 
the goose-step, keep your head clear, and then you 
will see as much of the Future of the Past as I do. 
Go on ; I have done. I appeal to England ! 


KICHMOND, 1856. 

Bx A- — T . 

I hold it truth, when I recal 

Last London season's joyous spell, 
"lis better to have danced not well, 

Than never to have danced at all. 

He who for dancing only lives, 
To staid academies may go — 
May seek the lessons that Michau 

Or Leonora Geary gives ; — 

May study each harmonious hop, 
By a Redowa partner's side ; 
The spider-legged Cellarius slide, 

The dead Varsoviana stop. 

And when he so has learnt to dance, 
And deftly used his twinkling feet, 
He'll hand his partner to her seat, 

And gaily with a fresh one prance. 


I am a bachelor, I know ; 

But tell me not I can forget, 

When in a polka with Lisette, 
I chanced to tread upon her toe. 

One little smothered scream — we stopped — 
My thousand soft apologies 
Were met by one beam from her eyes. 

That all my gloom with radiance topped. 

We danced again, that I might learn 

A truer step, nor failure make ; 

Until I wished, for dancing's sake, 
The day into the night would turn. 

Heart-life how few can understand, 

Great rivers from small fountains flow ; 
At last that tread upon her toe 

Turned to a pressure on my hand. 

The season's past ; — alone at Basle 
I sit ; but still, as truth I tell, 
'Tis better to have danced not well, 

Than never to have danced at all. 




"Tis a London summer evening ; 
Do you ask me where to pass it — 
Do you ask me where to gambol, 
Where to temper all its fervour 
With a drink that's not expensive, 
Where to soothe all irritation 
With the blissful strains of music, 
Where to puff a good regalia. 
Sitting 'neath a tree or grotto ? — 
I will answer, I will tell you, 
Go we to the Surrey Gardens. 

Call a cab, and o'er the water, 

By the bridge surnamed Blackfriars ; 

(Waterloo avoid, for twopence 

Are exacted there by tollmen) ; 

Hie we down the road of Surrey, 


By the theatre whose glories 

Range through long-protracted seasons, — 

From " legitimate" of Creswick 

To the " grand romance" of Shepherd. 

By the Elephant and Castle, 

Where stage-coaches once assembled, 

Where did throng itinerant vendors 

With their papers, fruit, and penknives; 

By the hybrid homes of Walworth, 

Semi-urban, semi-rustic. — 

Where's your purse ? — the cab is stopping — 

We are at the Surrey Gardens. 

Enter — paying first a shilling ! 
Soft and soothing falls the twilight ; — 
O'er the gardens and the gravel, 
O'er the trees of all descriptions, 
O'er the picture limned by Danton, 
O'er the lake that lies before it, 
Where the cockneys fish for minnows 
Listen to the strains of music, 
From the hall majestic wafted ; 
There the magic wand of Jullien 
Waves above his curls ambrosial; — 


There tlie strains of dulcet singers 
Mingle there with chords harmonious. 
Drink we of the " Vin d'Epernay," 
(Sixpence crowns the glass so creaming), 
Smoke we 'neath the Kiosk's awning, 
(Tribute to our friends of Turkey), 
Feed the bear with buns of England 
(Kindly deeds to former foemen), 
Wander through stalactite caverns. 
Gaze upon an alpine region. 

Yet the wanderer starts, beholding 
Myriad lamps around him gleam, 
Gas light glow-worms by the pathways. 
Classic columns topped with light, 
By the paths and round the flow'r beds, 
Wheresoe'er we choose to wander, 
Gas-lamps gleam among the daisies, — 
Is it not a cemetery 
With the graves illuminated ? 
Never mind — the rain is coming, 
Get a cab, and quickly hie we 
Homeward from the Surrey Gardens, 



By A T . 

With half a glance upon the house, 
Each night he said, " The gatherings 
Of people underneath this roof 
Teach me the paying sort of things, 
And music, whence they'd stand aloof, 
May in the ocean depths go souse." 

He led a solo — ne'er perhaps 
Floated a wheatstraw down the air 
More softly than his baton's wave, — 
So dulcet, and so debonair ; 
And when 'twas o'er, a smile he gave, 
And several applauding taps. 

He led a polka — round his skull 

He waved the rhythm of the charm, 

And stamped, and shook his dress-coat's skirts, 

With giant wavings of his arm ; 



And then — he went and changed his shirt ! 
And said the house was very full. 

And so he drove a thriving trade, 
With symphonies in classic way; 
With Drummers and with Zouaves call 
Himself upon himself did play, 
Each season ending with a Ball 
Of Masques, his fortune thus he made. 



Birds in St. Stephen's garden, 
Mocking birds, were bawling — 

"Lord, Lord, Lord John!" 
They were crying and calling. 

Where was John ? In a fix ! 

Gone to Vienna, whither 
They'd sent him out of the way, — 

Tories and Whigs together. 

Birds in St. Stephen's sang, 

Chattering, chattering round him — 

" John is here, here, here, 

Back too soon, confound him !" 

They saw his dirty hands ! 

Meekly he bore their punning ; 
John is not seventy yet, 

But he's very little and cunning. 

m 2 


He to show up himself ! 

How can he ever explain it ? 
John were certain of place, 

If shuffling could retain it. 

I know the trick he played, 

And his schemes ere he unwound 'em ; 
His fingers he pricked with the four sharp points, 

And he left 'em where he found 'em. 

Look ! a cab at the door, 

Dizzy has snarled for an hour ; 

Go back, my Lord, for you're a bore, 
And at last you're out of power. 



Speak not again ! Fve heard enough. 

To make the lowly peasant's heart, 
As waves on hard rocks surge and sough, 

Beat, till he thought his brain would part. 
Speak not again ! The Boulogne boat 

Will shortly bear you o'er the sea ; 
The steward with you goes afloat, — 

I would I could that steward be. 

Speak not again ! No truthless word 

Those coral lips e'er passed I know. 
To hear you say 'twere quite absurd 

That you have never loved me so. 
And better is that silence drear. 

Than tomes of eloquence to me ; 
Oh ! Heav'n ! the shore-bell's sound I hear. 

Oh ! would I could that steward be. 



Would you know the sin and crime, that your 

educated time 
Endures within your clime unchecked, unceased ? 
Take an omnibus with me ('tis a shilling carries 

And the scenes you shall see " Down East," " Down 


Whitechapel has a road, where many a night has 

The blood from knife or goad of a goodly beast, 
But down the alley's gloom, in a miserable room, 
A woman s met her doom — " Down East," " Down 


In a miserable shed, with an old rug for a bed, 
As the dreary days on sped, her want increased, 
And he who should have thought of the famine 

that he wrought, 
Had just another "quartern" bought "Down 

East," " Down East." 

"•DOWN EAST." 183 

He was of that wild drunken crew that prowl when 

the day is new, 
With whom we know not what to do from gaol 

released ; 
3ne of a dogged, sullen air, who beat his wife and 

tore her hair, 
A.nd taught his children how to swear, " Down 

East," " Down East." 

Dne night — life's longest needs but one — he struck 

his wife, and all was done. 
From sorrow, ere the rise of sun, she was released ; 
Oh ! you who talk of distant lands, of savages on 

Afric's sands, 
Stretch forth in Town your soothing hands " Down 

East," " Down East." 



[The appearance of Mr. J , as a contributor to 

these pages, will doubtless be a surprise to the 
readers as startling as it cannot fail to be agreeable. 
To ourselves, it is doubly a source of congratulation. 
Apart from the pleasure we must feel at the enrich- 
ment of our pages by so distinguished a pen, we 
are proud to be the means of practically refuting 
the libellous charges of petty jealousy and cliquerie 
that have been brought against the literary men 
of the period. 

We have to apologise for keeping the reader from 
the treat in store for him; but the unexpected 
honour that has been conferred upon us must be 
our excuse for a little harmless vanity and prelimi- 
nary boasting. It may be wondered that Mr. J 

should choose, for his first contribution to our pages 
a biography — and that the biography of a living 

actor. Into Mr. J 's motives for devoting 

his talents to biographical literature, we do not 
presume to inquire ; but, having done so, his choice 
of a subject is eminently characteristic of the man. 
As a hater of Wrong, as the only recognised casti- 
gator of public and private Vice, what more natural 
than that he should employ his powerful pen in 
exposing the infamous career of the man whom he 
considers, par excellence, the incarnation of all that 
is fiend-like and criminal? 

And now Mr. J shall tell his own story. 


We must premise, by the way, that he has not 
sent us a very large quantity of it as yet. Should 
the reader find it suddenly discontinued (as we are 
bound to state, from our knowledge of the writer's 
habits of composition, is barely possible), he is re- 
quested to attribute it to no fault of ours — that's all.] 


I have written more good plays than any man 
living. Of all sorts be they ! Five-act comedies — 
long, but graceful and sparkling, like the five rosy 
fingers of a jewelled duchess. Domestic two-act 
dramas — snugr little two-storied cottages, where 
the household affections nestle, bill-somely and 
coo-somely, among the roses and ivy. One-act 
farces — crisp, short, and spicy; like sticks of pep- 
permint rock. Comic pantomimes even — with 
their wide, grinning cheeks all thickly plastered 
with the rich red paint of humour. I never wrote 
a tragedy that I remember. However, I could 
have written several very good ones if I had liked. 
Only I didn't. 

Some — nay, a great' many — in fact, most of my 
plays have been damned — I own it without a 
blush. But what then? Angels have been 


damned. Only my plays — which are more in the 
Congreve than the Lucifer line, have not fallen 
through my own fault. In fact, they couldn't — 
having none. They have been damned — invariably 
— through the malice or imbecility of actors. 

Actors — pigs ! I have shovelled troughs-full of 
pearls before the beasts, and they have crushed 
them beneath their dirty and (in a double sense) 
cloven hoofs. I have sung heavenly music to them, 
which they have drowned in their wretched grunting. 

Let them grunt. Not another grain of Attic 
salt do they get from me to save their lank sides 
from putrefaction. Bacon, forsooth ! — as if there 
were any possibility of curing an actor. I will 
smoke a few of them, though, before I have clone ; 
and am not so old but I may live to see certain of 
their number hung ! My match at epigram does 
not exist — as the reader perceives. 

I have been called a bitter man. So be it. 
Tonics are bitter, but they are good for the diges- 
tion. Any one who will swallow me cannot fail of 
a strong stomach. Not that I mean to say I 
agree with everybody — I should be very sorry (I 
have been writing as well as this nigh thirty years, 


and am still plain Esquire. Bitter, i' fackins !) 
Charles Spleen, for instance — who] is the worst 
actor, and the ugliest man, I ever saw in my life. 
All actors are bad, and more or less ugly. 

It may be said — spit at me rather — that I was 
an actor myself once. I deny it. The cygnet 
strayed among the ducks, and was laughed at 
for his awkwardness. Ere I was a swan, and 
knew the beauteous destiny in store for me, I may 
have tumbled into the slimy duckpond known as 
the stage. But I was so much out of place there, 
that the neighbouring geese hissed at me. Nobody 
dare say I was ever an actor. 

I have been branded misanthrope; one who hates 
and takes a gloomy view of human nature — from 
miser, wretched, bad; and Antkrqpos, one of the 
Parcte or Furies, supposed by the ancients to be the 
deadly enemies of man. Two brave Greek words 
arranged against me ! But wherein do I hate man ? 
In his good fellowship ? in his hospitality ? in his 
appreciation of wit ? in his powers of patient en- 
durance ? — No. In his over (and solitary) feeding ? 
in his refusal to recognise merit (especially of an 
epigrammatic character) ? in his besotted aristo- 


cratic tyranny, that shuts the man of genius from 
his sovereign's dining hall? — Yes, if you will. 
Human nature in its barren swamps, its loath- 
some sloughs, and, most of all, in its carefully- 
guarded preserves — I do hate. But in its rich 
gardens, its laden orchards, and teeming vineyards, 
where the word is "Enter and be filled, and 
nothing for the waiter" — there I do love it. Did 

anybody ever hear me say a word against B 

and E ? Not in my most excited moments. 

When did this venomed tongue of mine hiss a 

syllable against my friend, Mr. L ; at any 

rate, within the last two or three years? Have 
I not always been the first to recognise the merits 

of Sir J P ? and, rank democrat as I am, 

do I not admit that there is good — ay, much good 
— in the Duke of D himself? I am even per- 
sonally attached to H D ! 

Still that is no reason why I shouldn't hate 
Charles Spleen, and write his life — which, by the 
bye, is what I have undertaken to do. Where 
was I ? Oh ! about the bitterness, and misan- 
thrope. I have threatened the public that I will 
write them no more plays. It is cruel, I admit. 


"Woe to the wretch who has forced me to the 
cruelty, and brought me into fresh odium with the 
race I love (on its benevolent side), but who will 
not understand, nor indeed always read me ! That 
wretch is Charles Spleen. So, as I said before, I 
will write his life ; which it is, probably, high time 
I commenced. 

Charles Spleen was born on — 

But is Pegasus a pack-horse? Does Apollo 
guide the sun, or wind up clocks? Are author's 
brains to be bought by the pound, like calves', 
and sent home punctually, in time to be cooked 
for the publisher's dinner ? If the editors of this 
book think so, they will find out their mistake, 
and I shall consider their little claim upon me 
forfeited — utterly. 

In the meantime, I will forth into the fields, 
and, by calling at the different workhouses, may 
be able to glean the particulars of my hero's birth 
in time for the next number. I have seen him 
kick his grandmother, and have proof in my pos- 
session that he steals barometers. — But this is 





London : Farringdon Street, 
September, 1856. 




To be obtained by Order of all Booksellers, Home or Colonial. 



±1 BULWER LYTTON, BART., M.P. Uniformly printed in crown 
8vo, corrected and revised throughout, with new Prefaces. 

20 vols, in 10, price £3 3s. cloth extra ; or any volumes separately, 
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EIENZI : The Last op the Tri- 
bunes .... 36 
PELHAM : on, The Adventures 

of a Gentleman ... 36 

EUGENE ARAM. A Tale . 3 6 







ALICE ; or. The Mysteries . 3 6 



ZANONI . . . • , .36 

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POTTLETON LEGACY : a History of Town and Country 
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Charles Knight. A New Edition, with 52 Illustrations by W. Har- 
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book is a complete treasury of knowledge and amusement, containing 
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TWENTY YEARS AFTER. By A:,exandreDum^, Author of Monte Christo 

" One of the most interesting an 1 ixcellent fictions ever written. '" 
HARRY OGILVIE ; or, the Bltic : D.-agoons. By James Gra? r. 

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MR. LEDBURY'S ADVii^i .. u „,s with his friend Jack Johnson. By Albert 

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" The first time any work 1> he author of ' Charles O'Malley' has appeared in a reallv 
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POTTLETON LEGACY (TH3). •' By Albert Smith, 

■ .' A -story of town And country ilf .; considered by many to be Albert Srai -It's beat work." 

PKX<JE ^;/S}HT?j:ENPENCE each 

LIGHT AND DARKNESS. By 4' < ... Crowe. 


The Poisoners. I P<— so' „<u>. Oonciergerie. j The Monk's Story. 

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THE CWSEN HAMD ; or, the Adventures of a Naval Lieutenant. By Georo ; 

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RATTLIN THE REEFER. Edii aptain Marryat. 

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" The poisoner of the 17th century." -* 


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ot this young Genn.'n sportsman, Gerstaecke " 

t>vsa '-' thoroughly h 

BLECTK. Ly tne Author of " Rockingham. " 

" ; « ;. --i modern life." 
ROV v :.i AM ; or U»e Yountrer Brother. By the Author of ■• Elect ra." 

"The works by the rmthor of ' Kt ingham' hear on every pv* 1 the impre-w of a m&a of genius.- 



Miseries of a Prize. I Joshua Tallb tj anti his 
Run for the Doctor. Friends. 
Privileged Persons. | A Precious Family. 
"' A most amusing book, by the author of the ' Life of lilliston. 

, *!f. 
illia:n Follett. 
Prospect Horise, &c. &c. 

TALES. By Samuel Phillips, Author of the " Essay-* irom the Times." 

" These extraordinary tales originu'ly appeared in Blaektsood's Magazine, and are now col 
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•Jr A nftnr*fH(b of fifteen months' imprisonment and escape trom the Gaatle of St. Geor^io.*' 
It is on. y by ai chance revelation, such as that which reached na the other day, wh- u Felic- 
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nine-tenths of the afflictions which weigh upon the rich lands of LomUardy. " — 'ftm4t s 

'cmriUte L&xU of $50 Volumes, all equally suitable for Railway or Home Heading. 

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